


Silver Flashes, Golden Crowns

by abovethesmokestacks, LemonadeHearts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (N)ASBB 2020, (Not) Another Stucky Big Bang 2020, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Fluff and Angst, Gay Bucky Barnes, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, King Bucky Barnes, M/M, Misunderstandings, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Photographer Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Strangers to Lovers, coming out (mentioned), emotional drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27620335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonadeHearts/pseuds/LemonadeHearts
Summary: When the assignment lands in Steve’s lap, he is sure he is dreaming. Or having a stroke. Or both. A feature with the new King to be published in the upcoming number of InSight Magazine. It’s fine. Everything will be fine. It’s a job, just like any other.Except…Except when the day comes, it is not a job like any other and a connection is forged between silver flashes and golden crowns.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli
Comments: 207
Kudos: 214
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s here!!!
> 
> I can’t begin to tell you all how excited I am to kick off this story! Working with my artist LemonadeHearts has been a joy, and she has done an amazing job creating the most gorgeous art for this story, starting this chapter with the banner. Infinite thank you to my beta, Beka, who has been a rock whenever I’ve doubted a direction the story has taken, answered questions and left the most delightful comments throughout the writing process. A big thank you also goes to my lovely Loup, my source of all things Brooklyn who took every question I had in stride and provided answers and more.
> 
> I do not myself live in a country with a monarchy, so this is very much an imagined version of what an American monarchy would look like, and I'm sure there are inadvertent mistakes. A thank you to my amazing friend Brooke is in order for answering questions about the British monarchy and some of the ins and outs of it.
> 
> This fic will update once a day.
> 
> Now, let’s jump in, shall we?

__

_“James…”_

_“Sorry, we're stuck in traffic, I'll be there as soon as I can!”_

_“James.”_

_"I know, I know, I swear, traffic is a menace, it's a total gridlock-"_

_"Bucky."_

_“Mom?”_

_“Darling, I’m so sorry.”_

* * *

_“It is with great sadness we interrupt this broadcast to announce that King George has passed away. The Royal Family, via the King's private secretary, mr Connor Thompson, issued the following statement: ‘We are devastated by the sudden and unexpected loss of His Royal Highness King George. In this trying time, we ask for the public’s understanding in the next few weeks.’ The King was set to embark on a tour of the European continent at the start of next week. Condolences are already flowing in, and flowers have already started gathering in front of the palace gates.”_

* * *

_“You still suck at hiding.”_

_“I can't do it, Becca. I’m not ready. Shit, I don't look ready, I don't feel ready. I thought I was gonna faint when they brought me in front of the council. They got down on one knee and swore allegiance to me! And now he’s- He’s gone. He’s really gone.”_

_“You won't do it alone, Bucky. Mom and I will be here.”_

_“Yeah, I know, I know, but… to them, I'll be alone. I'm 28, they will look at me and see nothing but a pale shadow of dad.”_

_“So make them see something else.”_

* * *

There's something about the lighting that isn't working. Steve can feel the tick in his eyebrow that signals the onset of stress, and he forces himself to minimize the window on his laptop, pushing his rimmed glasses up onto his head and pressing his thumbs between his eyebrows. It's a temporary fix, the pressure a sweet relief, but it's the only thing he can do. The general practice is to send pictures off to editors once they're in, but Steve, well… It's not that he's necessarily picky. Angie says he has a vision. Peggy usually slaps him upside his head and calls him picky. Although the latter might possibly be a truth that's gonna catch up with him, he much prefers the former. He has a _vision_ . He is an _artist._

“Rogers! Wilson!” Maria Hill, editor-in-chief for inSight Magazine, barks their names across the open-plan office, and Steve can see Sam flinching rather ungracefully before breaking down into muttered curses.

“What'd you do this time?” Sam asks when Steve falls into step with him.

“Me? I'm sorry, who fudged the Stark profile last month?”

Sam shoves him playfully, “Fuck off, I saved that!”

“Sure you did, but not before making plans for your funeral that consisted of preserving you in a cask of Laphroaig,” Steve points out under his breath, pulling the door open and effectively ending the conversation. Sam purses his lips and glares at him.

Maria Hill looks like a queen lounging on her throne. The entire room is all angles, from the sharp lines of the windows to the designer desk and black office chair that looks impossibly uncomfortable. For three years now she has guided inSight Magazine after a rather messy handover from the previous owner. Nick Fury, the new owner of the publishing house, had handpicked her himself. Or, if you believed industry gossip, Fury had staged a coup and stolen her right from under her previous employer where she was permanently stuck as an editor despite handling most of the editor-in-chief's tasks. No one had really dared, or frankly bothered to clear up which version was true, and Hill would only smile at even the slightest hint of an inquiry about how she ended up at the most prestigious culture and entertainment magazine in the business.

“What's up?”

Hill waits until the door clicks shut behind them before clasping her hands together on the sleek desk. “What I'm about to tell you will not leave this room. You will not speak, tweet, stream, mime or so much as breathe a word of it until the assignment is done and in print.” When neither Steve, nor Sam say anything, she fixes them both with an icy stare, “Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Steve can feel Sam stiffening next to him. Fuck, he is gonna pay for that later. You don't “ma'am” Maria Hill in front of Sam Wilson and get away with it.

“The coronation is next month, and the Palace has reached out and asked us to do a feature on our new monarch.”

“What?”

“Come again now?”

Both of them stare at Hill as if she has just told them Bigfoot was real and ready to host a press conference. The Palace has been notoriously tightlipped about the new king, to the point where tabloids were speculating about a succession crisis and digging into every distant relative that could possibly have a claim. The new king, the former crown prince James had not been seen in public for months before the death of his father, and has turned into even more of a recluse in the weeks following. Not that Steve can fault the guy. He had lost his own mother at quite a young age and remembered all too well the devastation of losing her much sooner than he had expected. Throw being freshly anointed monarch on top of that and Steve is impressed that the crown prince, well, king, is still even in the country.

“An exclusive feature. No one but us. Pictures, interview, all one-on-one.”

Hill emphasizes the three last words, tapping a well-manicured finger against the desk. It's not the first time they score an exclusive, but this… Sam exhales next to him and Steve can feel himself getting lightheaded. This is next-level, and the opportunity of a lifetime.

“What's the catch?” Sam asks, cocking his head, already thinking of the professional angles.

“We need this to be the story for our next issue,” Hill says simply.

Steve balks. “For the January issue? We go to print right after New Years!”

“Exactly. The Palace is coordinating with me to find a suitable time and place, but it could be soon. For all I know, they could call me back in ten minutes and tell me we're on tomorrow.”

“Whoa, I think the fuck not!”

Sam is no stranger to pulling a miracle every now and then, but this story needs more than two weeks of research and prep alone. As a photographer, Steve's share of the burden is easier. As soon as he knew the time and place, he could scout it out in advance or sketch concepts with the stylists. His main struggle is bad lighting for outside shoots, a nervous participant and his own editing process.

“I'll thank you not to use that language around me again, Wilson,” Hill replies coolly, then continues: “I'll do my best to negotiate and buy you time, but let’s face it, I'm not in a position to make any grand demands here. We have a deadline and this is the new king we're talking about.”

“So what are we standing here for?” Sam's not visibly shaken by their boss's reprimand, too eager and excited to get to work.

“Whatever you are working on, put it on the back burner. This is all you will focus on and you will do so quietly. Steve, as soon as we have a place, you will scout it. Whatever set up you need, plan it, make sure you have it and that it's set up. Sam, questions, angles, all of it. The Palace will no doubt want to run through them, but run them by me too before submitting them. You two are now working together. I don't care if you lock yourselves in a soundproofed room until we have all the information and when and where, but you make sure you are prepared and that no one – _no one_ – finds out about this before I say so. I do not need loose lips to sink this ship because I may be the captain and go down with it, but you can be damn sure I'll take all of you down with me.”

This time, Steve catches himself before another “yes, ma'am” slips out, and he joins Sam in reassuring Hill that they will be the posterboys for discretion and secrecy. She looks like she might want to tell them to be serious, but simply dismisses them from her office. How they manage to get back to their desk without breaking into a wild sprint and parkouring over every damn desk is beyond Steve. He has barely sat down before the internal messaging system pings.

Wilson

_> >SO THIS IS GONNA BE A CAREER MAKER_

_ >>MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS TO US _

Me

_ >>I’m gonna have to convince Hill to let me buy new equipment. None of my cameras are worthy. You think I can convince her it would be an appropriate company Christmas present? _

Wilson

_ >>I CAN'T WAIT FOR MY MOM TO SEE THIS SHE IS GONNA FREAK _

Me

_ >>What am I supposed to do until Hill hears back abt time and place? Need any help with research? _

Wilson

_ >>SHIT _

Wilson

_ >>Fuck, I don't even know where to begin! _

Wilson

_ >>Steve, I think I'm having an aneurysm _

Me

_ >>Breathe, Sam, jesus! I didn't peg you for being starstruck _

Wilson

_ >>HE'S NEW KING OF THE COUNTRY STEVE WHY ARE YOU NOT FREAKING OUT _

Me

_ >>Maybe I did my freaking out a long time ago _

Wilson

_ >>the fuck does that mean??? _

Me

_ >>Start from the beginning. You've only got 28 yrs to catch up on_

* * *

_“Oh, don't you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me-”_

Steve shoots out of bed, blindly scrambling to find his phone and answer before either Peggy or Angie kick down his door. The walls in the apartment complex are little better than cardboard, which has led to more than one awkward moment in the past. Peggy and her girlfriend Angie live in the unit next to Steve’s, and he has heard things he’d rather not, and… caused sounds he wishes he could have kept quieter.

Sleep keeps its claws in him, making his hand slip over the phone and knocking his glasses off the bedside table before he finally finds its grip and pulls the phone to him. For a panicked moment, fear runs ice cold through his veins, his mind pulled back to the night he got the call about his mother.

“Hello?” His voice quivers slightly, and he blinks, telling himself everything's ok.

_“Did you know Prince Charming went to one of the top colleges in the country?”_

Blink. Steve's brain halts, lost in the moment and trying to change lanes.

“Sam, what the fuck? What time is it?” he hisses then holds his breath to listen for any sounds from the apartment next door.

 _“Two…”_ Sam drags out the word and Steve can almost see him stretching to see the clock. _“Two thirty-three am. Were you sleeping? Seriously though, this dude. I feel wildly inadequate.”_

“And you had to share that with me right this second? Fuck, Sam, I have a shoot early tomorrow.”

_“Shoot? The hell man, you're my partner! Hill told us to shelve everything!”_

“I can't do much until we know when and where,” Steve moans, falling back onto his pillow, “and I asked you if you needed help. You said no, so I'm continuing with my schedule, which says shoot tomorrow at asscrack-of-dawn o'clock.”

Sam grunts and Steve can hear a loud thunk which sounds suspiciously like he's faceplanting onto the table. Two thirty. He should be sleeping, Steve thinks, they should _both_ be sleeping. Then again, Sam won't get to sleep until whatever's got him in a tizzy is out of his system.

“So he attended some fancy school?”

 _"Dude, he attended The Fancy School,"_ Sam tells him, and there's the faint sound of scrolling in the background. _"Got enrolled under a fake name, did their International Relations programme with particular focus on Conflict Resolution, even lived on-campus for a bit. Graduated magna cum laude, was embedded with a unit in the army for 6 months before he came back and continued with postgrad studies. Doesn't live on campus anymore though, he apparently once said his cover was well and truly blown after his graduation was swarmed by the Secret Service at the last moment because some dumbass posted a vague threat online."_

Steve squints at the ceiling, "Yeah, I think I remember that. The guy had been in one of his classes, right? Got mad because the prince got an A or something?"

_"People are fucking dumb, I'm just saying. How much of an idiot do you have to be to think you'll get away with that kind of bullshit?"_

"Anything else?" Steve suppresses a yawn, rolling over. God, he needs to sleep, tomorrow is gonna be a bitch, and he needs to remember to send in the edited footage from the Maximoff shoot.

_"Steve, are you trying to ditch me? My god, Rogers, I never thought you would sink so low. I'm your boy, your pal, your-"_

"Sam, I love you, but shut the fuck up. It's too late for me to be having an intelligent conversation. Fuck, it's too early for me to be having any kind of discussion. If I looked out the window, I'm pretty sure the world would be glitching because the matrix hasn't been booted up yet."

_“While I appreciate that declaration of love, you are a killjoy, Rogers. Here I am, trying to get us both pumped for the assignment of our lifetime, and you are just… not gonna join the parade?”_

“No, I’m gonna rain on it, and there’s nothing you can do about it, Streisand. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Sam’s quiet for a few seconds, and it’s long enough for Steve to think that maybe, just maybe his friend is gonna let it go, say goodnight and let him go back to the land of blissful sleep. But Sam is Sam, and he always has to get the last dig in.

_“He’s just your type.”_

With that, the call ends, and Steve curses under his breath. Sam had known about his sexuality since their first company party, when he had tried to set Steve up with just about every intern in attendance. Hours later, when Sam was just about drunk enough to get emotional and bemoaning his failure as Steve’s wing man, Steve had felt it was only right to tell him that the reason he was not interested in any of the very nice, very pretty interns was because he had just gotten out of a long, complicated relationship… with a guy. There had been a long, one-sided conversation where Steve explained how he’d realized he was bi during senior year of high school, how he’d dated both guys and girls, and how now was not a good time for neither a rebound, nor a new serious relationship with anyone. The fact that Sam remembered any of it the following Monday was a minor miracle, but he’d been a good sport about it, and would only occasionally and always in private needle Steve about who he should send Steve’s way. 

_“Hey, a good wingman is always ready,”_ was Sam’s standard comeback when Steve usually flipped him off.

He really means to put away his phone. He does. Early shoot, he needs to be sharp and focused. Ugh, and the Maximoff shoot, he needs to set a reminder. It’s totally and completely Sam’s fault that he stays up another half hour googling the prince. He can’t even say that it’s for professional reasons. A lot of the pictures splayed across the internet are either shoddy pap shots attached to equally shoddy gossip stories and half of those are images where Steve’s not even sure it is the prince. King. King, damn it. On the other end of the spectrum are the stiff official portraits from when he was still crown prince that paint him in a cold, unforgiving light, accompaniments to impersonal statements from the Palace. Charity work, graduations, ceremonies, state visits with his parents when he was younger. It’s sterile and lifeless, like stock photos. There is so little known about King James, and it makes Steve wonder what he’s like. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about the royal family, but they have always seemed to be a little… removed.

Steve clicks back to the result page of his google search. King James, in the eyes of the internet, seems to be one or the other. Someone who looks like everyone else, walking down the streets in jeans and a t-shirt, sunglasses covering his eyes. Someone who is set to rule the country, done up in all kinds of finery, gaze distant and focused off-camera. He wonders if the polished figurehead of the nation is the one who will show up for the shoot. It would be highly unlikely the Palace would let the other version show up. Steve taps to lock his phone, setting it aside and turning over in his bed. He hopes the King might be something in between.

* * *

_"Mom…"_

_"It's necessary. I know you're not… enthusiastic, but we need to do it. I want the people to see you like your sister and I see you."_

_"He's barely been gone for more than a week."_

_"Bucky… I know it's hard. I miss him, too. Every day, every night. We're only people, but ours is a life that is tied to procedures. Customs. Your father was only a few years older than you when he ascended the throne."_

_"I'm- I don't want to let him down. I don't want to let anyone down."_

_"Listen to me, James. Listen, and listen good. You won't be able to please everyone. It's an impossible feat. But... You can do your best. And that is the only thing that will matter. You won't be alone. I'll be here, you'll have the council. You'll be okay."_

_"Thank you."_

_"Mmm. This will have to go, though."_

_"Mom!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Bucky's "resumé" that Sam rattles off to Steve over the phone was heavily influenced by the study programme the Swedish crown princess Victoria passed, and she was also embedded with a military unit for three weeks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner and incredible chapter art by my amazing collaborator LemonadeHearts. As always, biggest thanks to my incredible beta, Beka, and to you, who are reading this. Enjoy chapter 2.

They get summoned to Hill’s office again only two days after their initial meeting. Steve thinks he needs to work on this feeling of being called into the principal’s office whenever Hill barks out his name across the office. He hasn’t done anything wrong, so why is there a sensation of dread simmering in the pit of his stomach? For that matter, how is no one suspicious that they get called in for a second meeting with their boss in three days? Sam looks like he’s about to buzz out of his skin, his desk a mess of notes and research for other stories because he’s cleared most of his lockable drawers to store research for their “top secret mission”.

(he’s really, _actually_ , calling it that)

(Steve refuses to call it that)

(but really, it kind of is)

“Sit,” Hill commands them once they’re inside and the door is closed and the blinds are drawn.

Three folders are sat in front of her, set out neatly and evenly spaced out. There’s a three card monty joke somewhere in that setup, but Steve is not going to push his luck. He just wants Hill to give them their assignment so he can go on with his day.

“What’s up?” Sam asks. “Somehow I have a feeling you are not about to scam me out of my money.”

Also, there’s Sam to break the ice and do the jokes. Hill rolls her eyes at them.

“Let me preface this by reminding you that I had no bartering chips here,” she tells them, pushing two of the folders towards them. “The Palace has set aside half of Tuesday next week for this piece. You will be shooting and interviewing in The Plaza’s royal suite. Sam, they will need your questions for proofing by Friday. Steve, they have already booked the suite for the shoot, you’re going down to the hotel today to scope the room. You’re allowed to bring whatever equipment you need for the shoot itself, but you will not be allowed any assistants. Ah-ah!”

She raises a finger before Steve even has a chance to open his mouth to protest. 

“They will bring people to help you carry your stuff the day of, but I wouldn’t trust them to know how to set up, so do yourself a favour and plan accordingly. I am also putting you in contact with their PR official so you two can coordinate what kind of aesthetic and mood they aspire for. Do not piss her off, Rogers, I swear to god. The three of us are the only ones who know about this thing, but you two will be on your own on Tuesday.”

Sam makes a grab for one of the folders, opening it and browsing through it quietly. Steve follows suit, although with a lot less chill. He has had run-ins with a lot of models and celebrities who somehow all turn into a diva when there’s a camera around. But by god, this is beyond anything he’s ever experienced. Next to him, Sam grumbles and huffs.

“Is this an NDA? What the hell,” he scoffs, tossing the folder back onto Hill’s desk, opened to the form.

“Wilson, this is our new monarch.” Hill crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in her chair. “Did you really think they wouldn’t include an NDA?”

“If they’re vetting his questions before we even get there, then what is even the purpose of an NDA?” Steve asks, eyeing through the agreement. 

Hill shrugs, opening her own folder to show her crisp signature on the dotted line at the bottom of the page. “I told you. Loose lips sink ships. No one wants a Titanic in these situations.”

Steve rolls his eyes and reaches for a pen each for him and Sam. He skims through the form again, looks at the dotted line with his full name under it. Why does it feel like he might as well be signing away his soul to the devil? Sam grumbles again, scrawls out his signature. It’s not like they can refuse, that would be career suicide. Hill dismisses them, handing Steve a calling card before they leave. Ms Natasha Romanoff, Director of Communications. He flips the card between his fingers, feels the embossed outline of the royal seal. Sam walks off to his desk, grumbling, and Steve can hear him punching away at his keyboard while he dials Romanoff. They set up a meeting in half an hour, which should be just enough time for Steve to get to the hotel provided the gods of the MTA are cooperating with him. Romanoff doesn’t exactly sound like someone he wants to stand up for any type of meeting, and he hastily packs the bare minimum of his gear just so he can take a couple of test shots.

“Steve Rogers?”

He’s barely through the doors of the hotel lobby, sweat beading on his forehead, lungs burning from the run from the train and his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose while his messenger bag swings dangerously at his side. The woman approaching him looks every bit as no nonsense as Steve imagined her. Natasha Romanoff is dressed in a long navy pencil skirt and a pristine white shirt, not quite smiling, but there is a friendly enough expression on her face and an ease to the way she extends her hand to him that makes him feel like he looks like a schmuck and acts like a doof in comparison.

“Hi, yes, I- Sorry, the F train was a nightmare, did I keep you waiting?”

“Not at all.” 

The way she looks at him, arched eyebrow and lips still curled into that enigmatic almost smile, makes it sound like she is lying for his benefit. Her handshake is firm, surprisingly so and as soon as they let go of each other, she’s moving, sweeping through the lobby to the elevators.

“We’ve rented out the royal suite up until the shoot and interview, if at any point you need to come by, I’ve got a keycard for you. Keep it separate from your phone, I do not want fifteen calls from the concierge that you’ve demagnetized it.”

“Yes, m- Yes. Sure. Absolutely.” God, he needs to sew his mouth shut.

The elevator doors slide open and Natasha flicks her card and presses the button for the penthouse suite. She folds her hands primly in front of her, and Steve has the eerie feeling again like she could make him disappear if he ever so much as entertained the thought of crossing her. 

“I’ve seen your work, mr. Rogers,” she says about halfway up, breaking the not entirely uncomfortable silence. “It’s very impressive.”

“Oh, um, thanks..?” If Steve could take a swan dive out of the elevator right now, he would. “Thank you.”

“I particularly liked the lighting and the composition for the Brightest Minds-feature.”

Steve feels like he is on the verge of both exploding and imploding. Romanoff is obviously thorough in her work, she has checked up on him, probably Sam, too, and she chose to compliment one of Steve’s favourite jobs of all time. More than that, she specifically complimented things he had had a hand in. 

“It was a privilege. Like this, I’m very grateful that my boss assigned it to me.”

Romanoff gives him a sly smile just as the elevator comes to a stop, “Oh, mr. Rogers, Maria Hill didn’t assign this to you. We requested you.”

His brain promptly stops working at that point, and Steve is not entirely sure how he manages to even function through the tour of the suite, but he knows he’s nodding at Romanoff and there are test shots taken for possible set placements, mental notes taken of possible lighting setups and reminders to check the weather forecast in case that might throw a wrench in the works, and at some point there are more handshakes and how does he even end up back at the office?

Wilson

_ >>u ok?? _

Me

_ >>Yeah? I’m fine? _

Wilson

_ >>you answered a question with two questions _

_ >>and you’ve been sitting at your desk for ten minutes staring at your screensaver _

_ >>I mean it’s a good screensaver _

_ >>but what gives _

Me

_ >>I think I had a brain aneurysm earlier _

_ >>nvm, def had one _

Wilson

_ >>the hell?? _

Me

_ >>I'm currently reevaluating everything I have every thought about myself at a rate of 20 wtfs per minute _

The days pass by far faster than Steve could ever have anticipated. Most every day he makes a trip to the suite, little by little depositing gear that won’t be needed by anyone else, doing test shots and tweaking his setup. He reads through the very thorough etiquette briefing Romanoff sends them, he reports his progress and ideas to Hill, has discussions with Sam, who is looking more and more harried by the day as he’s playing question ping pong with the Palace, cussing quietly under his breath and a little louder over message. 

Steve usually has a ritual on the day of a big shoot. He’ll allow himself an extra twenty minutes in bed, use his contacts instead of his glasses, eat at home for once and not on the train, he’ll check his gear in a set order once at the office and again at the shoot. He’ll dress comfortably, and if that sometimes includes ripped jeans, then so be it. But. This is not just a big shoot, though. This is The Big Shoot. His extra 20 minutes does him nothing, he almost pokes one of his eyes out trying to get the contacts in, and Sam calls him just after, panicking about two suits and Steve realizes today is not a day for ripped jeans, but a suit seems overkill and would be terribly impractical considering the positions he has gotten into during shoots in the past. 

Still.

This is not one of those shoots.

He huffs and pulls out a pair of khakis that are not terrible ( _they’re not, Sam, shut your face_ ), a crisp-ish shirt and a blazer. Looking in the mirror, it doesn’t look horrible. He’s presentable. Could maybe fill out his shirt and blazer a bit better, but hell, it's a whole world apart from the skinny teenager he was growing up with a host of health problems to make things even more interesting. Steve purses his lips, tugs at the lapels of his blazer. Presentable. Okay. He can’t get more than half a bagel down before his nerves kill any hunger he might have felt, and he ends up getting a shitty coffee between his station and The Plaza, holding it at arms length so as not to end up with a coffee stain on his shirt. He needs to look presentable. He looks presentable. Right? Right.

Except Sam looks like a million bucks compared to him when they meet up in the hotel lobby, and Steve can feel the khaki judgment radiating from his friend the entire elevator ride up. For a second after they step out, it almost feels like a regular shoot. There’s talking, equipment left, right and center, hangers draped with clothes. Then, Romanoff greets them, this time in a getup that is as close to a suit without being a suit, looking razor sharp and ready to roll.

“Good, you’re here. Steve, we’ve set everything up per your request, but if you need to fix anything, you can do that now, and His Majesty will be with you in a few minutes. Sam, why don’t we sit down, go over the questions one final time.”

Sam’s smile looks pleasant, but Steve has seen it a lot these past few days, and it is wearing thin enough that it’s a surprise Romanoff doesn’t see through it. Or who the hell knows, maybe she does. Steve shrugs, makes his way to the living room area to find that the gods of weather are shining down on him. Through the big floor-to-ceiling windows, the view of Manhattan is breathtaking against pale clouds, like brush strokes with hints of the rose and peach sky behind them, filtering through the perfect amount of natural light to make his job so much easier. One of the girls from the sizable crew sent from the Palace gets to stand in so Steve can do a final tweak of the setup and the poor thing squeals and asks if she can see the picture. 

“I mean, it’s just a- It’s a test shot,” he fumbles, but the girl is insistent and coos and awws over a shot that Steve, with some amount of shame, knows he would have passed over in a heartbeat.

“Looks like I’m in safe hands.”

The voice is low and warm, and it brings with it a presence that makes shivers travel up Steve’s spine and it makes the girl standing next to him scatter with a little yelp. He swings around, camera wobbling in his hands, coming face to face with the prince- _King, he is king, the brief said he’s king oh god-_ And Steve promptly forgets everything the brief had said about how he should behave in the presence of James Buchanan Barnes, no longer just the crown prince but king. There’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, bringing a glitter to deep blue eyes and the hint of a crinkle between his eyebrows. It’s as if someone melded the regal and staged Palace photos of a young prince and the grainy paparazzi shots of a prince unrecognizable but occasionally smiling and with an easier set to his shoulders. 

“Or maybe not?” the King remarks and Steve is so utterly mortified that he misses the teasing tone and the raised eyebrow.

“I’m so sorry, Your M- Your-” _God fucking damn it, what is he supposed to call him, for fuck’s sake, it was there, it was the first bullet point-_

The King leans in a little, and Steve wonders if his beating heart can be heard by the entire room.

“Romanoff will give me hell, but…” He looks around but the lady herself is still off with Sam before he says in a whisper: “James. I haven’t really gotten used to the ceremonials myself.”

Steve’s brain finally dislodges itself enough to dredge through his memory, and he bows his head, hoping the King won’t catch the absolutely flaming blush on his cheeks, “It’s fine, Your Majesty. Would you like to go through the setup? I’m sure you’ve been briefed, but sometimes doing a walkthrough on-set can make…” _Stop rambling, Steve._ “...things a little more…” _Oh, Jesus Christ, stop stop stop._ “...clear.”

He catches the King smiling when he looks up again, and something about the way he nods and looks down makes Steve think the King is disappointed and that in and of itself is enough to fuel a mini-panic attack because did he just make the country’s monarch sad? He’s back to a heart rate that would give any doctor pause when the King holds out his hand for Steve to show him around, and Steve beats his brain into submission again and walks him through the set up. A more posed setup for the interview by the couch and armchairs in the parlor area, staged but still a little casual. Editorial shots by the large windows, a visual story of a king looking out over his country, pensive and ready to serve. Do away with the suit jacket (even though Steve has to admit it is tailored to perfection on the man), show a king behind the scenes, away from the pomp and circumstance, as ordinary as his life gets. King James nods through it all, hands clasped behind his back, eyes roaming over the lighting equipment, the reflectors and soft boxes. 

Like a miracle from heaven, Sam and Romanoff show up again, and Sam is impressive in his manners and sure looks a hell of a lot better than Steve does. He thinks the King notices, and Steve can feel his cheeks starting to burn as the King’s eyes graze over him before giving his full attention to Sam. Sam gestures to the sitting group, and thank any and all gods out there, it’s go time.

The first part goes well, in that Sam gets his interview done and Steve, even though he is in his own little bubble of trying to catch the best angles, can tell it’s gonna be a homerun for them. Every few questions Steve will call their attention and snap a picture of a certain pose the King finds himself in. Hill is gonna need to increase the page numbers because is he supposed to just pick a handful of shots?

“Your Majesty, thank you so much for this, it’s been a real pleasure to sit down and talk to you,” Sam says, standing up and bowing his head.

The King follows suit, doing up the button of his jacket and holds out a hand for Sam to shake, “Pleasure has been all mine, mr. Wilson. It was… rewarding.”

“More so for me, Your Majesty. And may I also wish you happy holidays.”

“You, too, mr. Wilson.” 

Sam looks maybe a little starstruck when he speaks again, “I’ll leave you in Steve’s capable hands. Steve, you okay with me leaving?”

He waves his notepad towards the door. Why does that feel like Sam’s throwing him under the bus? On one level, he gets it, they’re under pressure, and Sam is about as picky with his texts as Steve is with his pictures. Steve gives an awkward smile and just like that, the room is in motion again. Romanoff steps in to call the shots, the crew is swarming around the King to touch up his hair, his makeup, his clothes, and Steve is just trying not to stand there as useless as a chocolate teapot. It’s a well-oiled machine that flutters around the King, and he seems to tolerate it with the kind of resigned patience that can only come from years of dealing with this.

Steve does a few shots of the commotion just to recheck his settings before he moves over to the windows. The natural light is still good, he’s good, he’s solid, this is the best possible setup he could have asked for. _It’s going to be fine, stop freaking out, Steve,_ he silently repeats to himself.

“I believe I’m all yours?”

Jesus, but the man can sneak up on him. Steve somehow manages to not quite flinch as he looks up to meet the King’s gaze, expectant and a little amused, hands clasped behind his back. They are the same height, relatively similar in build, and somehow, Steve still feels eerily small in the man’s presence.

“Uh, yeah, uh-” Fuckfuckfuckfuck. “Yes, Your Majesty. This is actually… This is good. Maybe…”

The King quirks an eyebrow at him, “Yes, mr. Rogers?”

Mr. Rogers. He should have seen that coming. It’s not that he hates the formal address as such, but he spent too many years having “hey neighbour” jeered at him because his blessed mother, god rest her soul, raised him to be a good boy and dressed him like one, too. Being the goody two-shoes got him into a lot of trouble, especially when he got sick of the taunts and made sure his fists became real close neighbours with a lot of faces. Steve schools his expression, reiterating the idea for this part of the feature. The King nods, glancing back at the audience gathered at the back of the living room space and looking at them with bated breath. 

It’s not that it’s… bad. The King is a handsome man, but Steve snaps picture after picture from angle after angle and everytime he checks his camera, the image looks flat. It’s pretty, aesthetically pleasing, but the story isn’t there. He suggests removing the suit jacket, get a little more relaxed, behind-the-scenes feel to it. Flat. Flat flat flat with a side of worry that shows as a line between the King’s eyebrows. More glances at the people.

“Your Majesty…” Steve steps closer, turning his back on the Palace crew.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” the King winces, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No, no, no, it’s… Is there something we can do to make this more comfortable for you?”

Another glance to the room. Ah. Steve spots Romanoff returning, and he hopes to god this will not blow up in his face.

“Excuse me, could we… Could we please have the room? I know this is exciting, but your reflections are showing in the window.”

They don’t, but it’s as good an excuse as any to empty the room. Some people thrive with an audience, feed off their energy. Other people freeze up under the added attention.

Romanoff quirks an eyebrow at them, then looks straight at Steve when she speaks, “I’ll be right outside if you need me, Your Majesty.”

Her tone is pleasant, the words comforting, but something about them in conjunction with coming from Romanoff makes Steve feel like there may just be a threat hidden somewhere in there. Next to him, the King exhales, running a hand through his hair. Steve goes to grab a glass of water from a table, handing it to the other man with a smile.

“Thanks- Thank you. Sorry, I’m… I’m not all that good at this.”

Steve shakes his head, “You’re doing fine, Your Majesty.”

“I really can’t convince you to call me James, can I?”

Maybe the King needs to read through his own court's etiquette brief? Either way, the idea is… Well, Steve supposes he could. He looks at the King, tilting his head. He looks like a James, he thinks. 

“I really shouldn’t, sir.” 

The K- _James_ . Maybe he can _think_ of him as James. James sounds neutral. Still regal, but… normal. Yeah, that’ll do. James scrunches up his nose, but there’s a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“That’s almost as bad as Your Majesty.”

“I figured you’d be used to it,” Steve comments, lifting his camera again to snap a picture of James and the little half-smile that remains.

“In a way, yes. But you’re not a… you’re not what I’m used to." He lets the glass almost hang from his fingertips, looking out and down at the sprawling city beneath them. "This whole affair is not what I’m used to.”

"Is being king that different from being the crown prince?" Another snap, like a breath between them.

“More responsibility.” James gives a little huff, shaking his head. “I knew this day would come. I wasn’t unprepared as such, all through growing up, it was there. ‘One day’, that’s what they’d say. One day it’d be me doing this, doing that. It always seemed so far away. I was… okay with being crown prince. Becoming king, it felt far away until it wasn’t. I think I got comfortable. No, definitely got comfortable.”

Click.

“Yeah?”

James sets down the glass, looks right at Steve, blue eyes boring into him with something that isn’t quite sadness, not quite resignation, not quite humour. Click. Click.

“I almost felt normal,” he muses, dragging a finger along the edge of the table. “I know it wasn’t a normal life by any means, but it was normal adjacent. I went to school, I did my work, I could relax a little. It was good. I know my privilege, and I am grateful for it, but I’m equally grateful for the pockets of normalcy that my parents, my entire family have made sure to temper my sister and me with. Although my mother would be the first one to say I got too comfortable.” Laugh. Click. “She was appalled by my hair.”

Steve remembers the shoddy pap pics, a casual prince, sometimes with hair that just brushed the tops of his shoulders, sometimes with it tied back at the nape of his neck under a ball cap.

“Made sure I cut it after I had appeared before the council right after I-” He looks away then, avoiding Steve’s gaze, avoiding the subject and only allowing himself a second to be vulnerable before the half-smile is back and he looks back out the window. “She is big on proper appearances. My sister thought it was hilarious. I apparently pulled some faces.”

It has never felt wrong to take a picture, but in this moment, Steve lowers his camera. James is king, he has a life and a future that Steve can’t imagine and wouldn’t really want to have, but right now, in this room with just the two of them, he is a guy who’s lost his father and is still grieving. His fingers ache to reach out and touch, a hand on the King’s shoulder, something that is solid and reassuring. Instead he steps away, puts some distance between them to show respect.

“Can I tell you something?”

It’s small, barely above a whisper, and James is still looking out, eyes trailing over the skyline. The combination, his silhouette in stark contrast against New York City and all its people, is enough to almost knock Steve to his feet. 

“Sure.” He lifts his camera. Click.

“I’m scared. I’m- I’ve been preparing for this my entire life, and I am still so, so scared. The people deserve better, but I’m here, and I just… I don’t know how to begin. I have all this- this knowledge. How to be king. Conflict resolution. Diplomacy. Growing up watching my father and mother. I should know how to do this, but I don’t. I don’t… know how to be king. How to be their king.” His shoulders slump, one hand sliding into the pockets of his slacks, the other touching the window pane.

Click. He is a lone figure, one out of many, silhouetted against the sky and the backdrop of the city, elevated above but looking down and reaching out with longing. A king wanting to be close to his people. This is it, Steve thinks. This image, this contrast – a real and bare representation of the King – is his pièce de resistance. He can probably play around with the light some more, but Steve can already see it. He sets the camera down gently, drags his feet a little to be heard before he comes up next to James, following the same jagged lines of Manhattan from above.

“I’m only one of the people, but if you’ll humour me. I think… There will be those who will search for faults, no matter what. The ones that can never be pleased. But most of us… I think most of us are compassionate.”

“I just wish I could… I wish I could tell them,” James sighs, shifting on his feet.

“What would you tell them, James?”

It feels… okay to use his name. A little appropriate considering the private moment. James looks up at him, warmth seeping into his expression at Steve’s concession to protocol. Steve’s stomach flutters, multiplying into shivers that run through him and settle hot on his cheeks. James exhales.

“I’d tell them I’ll try.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner and art by my amazing collaborator LemonadeHearts
> 
> Thank you to Beka, who continues to be the best beta ever, and to you guys reading. Your comments make my mornings!

Steve will swear up and down that he is a professional. Non-sentimental, dedicated to his work and his craft. He is. Usually. But in the days that follow the photoshoot, he may be the opposite of that just a little bit. It’s hard to go through the images, and it’s not all because he has to pick a handful that will make it into the feature out of a veritable sea of shots. It’s a challenge because the King is a fucking handsome bastard and every once in a while there will be a shot where James looks straight into the camera and Steve can physically feel himself melt a little.

He only has so much time between the holidays looming closer and the print deadline, and together with Sam, they put together images and text into something that they can all be at least a little proud of. A little more time and maybe some input from the graphics department would have served them both well, but they got it done, and Hill sends them both a nod and a rare smile when she walks into the office the day the issue goes to print.

“I say this calls for a beer,” Sam declares, swiveling around in his chair. “No, two beers. Beers aplenty.”

“On a Wednesday night?” Steve asks, checking his phone for his upcoming projects for the rest of the week.

“Oh, come on, we just did a thing, a major thing. One beer to celebrate it, man. One beer. You and me and one beer.”

Steve shakes his head with a chuckle, turning to head back to his own desk, “The fact that you keep repeating ‘one beer’ does not make me believe it will end with one beer, and I have a shoot at ass o’clock tomorrow.”

“Come on!”

He is not at all surprised that the messaging system blinks when he returns to his desk.

Wilson

_ >>one beer _

_ >>Rogers _

_ >>one beer _

_ >>I swear _

Me

_ >>You swear like a sailor _

Wilson

_ >>so? _

Me

_ >>So you go have one beer, I’ll have a good night’s sleep _

Wilson

_ >>Steve _

_ >>I am hurt _

_ >>I have been slighted _

_ >>is my solemn promise worth so little to you? _

Me

_ >>When your word is ‘one beer’ and it’s Wednesday? _

_ >>Your word is like a sales bin at a dollar store _

Wilson

_ >>there are no sales bins at a dollar store _

_ >>wait _

_ >>ROGERS _

Me

_ >>Have fun with your “one” beer, I’m gonna be packing my bags for Christmas _

Sam sends him a string of emojis that can not possibly mean anything flattering in any context, and Steve replies with a middle finger emoji and goes back to work. Some of his other projects have suffered in the week that has passed, and he tries to catch up as best as he can, still hunched over his laptop when Sam leaves around 5.30 pm. The trip home feels dragged out, each stop suddenly dragging on for miles between one another, and the creaking sound of the moving train worms its way past his headphones. There’s no way in hell he would have been able to go out with Sam, even if it would have been for one honest to god beer.

He gets off at York Street, shoulders hunched against the cold December wind and feeling tired to the bone. There had been a moment right after he got hired by InSight where he’d considered moving to Manhattan. It had felt like one of those things he should have done just because it was expected, but Brooklyn was Brooklyn and he’d lived there his entire life. In the end he just switched from his childhood stomping ground of Brooklyn Heights to Vinegar Hill. It fit his vibe, the apartment he’d found was pretty much close to perfect and he could still get to work without sacrificing half his morning sitting on the train.

Closing the door behind him feels like he’s finally unplugging, like he’s putting a physical barrier between himself and work. Steve’s stomach churns, and he groans at the thought of cooking something. He tries to be good about actually making food, to put sustenance rather than pure quantity into his body, but damn, he does not want to make that effort today. His biggest project to date, hell, of his goddamn _life_ , goes to print today, and he still feels like ordering a shitty burger and drink it down with a glass of the awful red he’s been trying to not even look at for the past two weeks and not do a goddamn thing. A shitty meal for a day that went on forever. Perfect.

_“Steve? Steve, you in there?”_

The question is followed by two knocks, and Steve contemplates just… not opening the door. He has a plan. Ordering a shitty burger, glass of wine, possibly conk out on the couch. Better double check the alarm on his phone just to be safe.

_“Steve?”_

But.

Angie is at his door and both she and Peggy have some kind of mother hen-complex about him so if he doesn’t answer, Angie will get Peggy and Peggy will absolutely have no qualms about bugging him until he opens. He would not be surprised if Peggy has no qualms about kicking his door down. With a sigh, he tips his head back. He can do this. Just tell Angie he’s fine and exchange some pleasantries. He’ll be back to his shitty burger-plan in five minutes.

“There you are!” Angie all but exclaims, her face lighting up as if she hasn’t seen him in ages.

“As always,” Steve replies with a smile that is maybe a little forced. He likes Angie, he does, she’s the epitome of the expression ‘literal ray of sunshine’, but right now, Steve is perfectly fine with cloudy. Maybe even a little rain.

“Sorry, I- Well, we, we wanted to come check on you. We tried greetin’ you when you came up the stairs, but you just walked like a zombie in here. Did something happen? Are you okay?”

Steve tries to remember it, and somehow the short trip up the stairs is all but a blur. God, this day. And then there's tomorrow. And the day after. He buries his face in his hands, letting out a long breath. This freaking day. He really, really, really wants that shitty burger now.

"Sorry, I was just…" His hands fall down and Angie is standing there, looking at him with a crease between her brows that screams of worry. "It's been a long day and a long week."

"You sure?" Angie asks, tilting her head.

"Yeah, I'm sure. No need to worry about me. I'm just gonna order food and conk out." Steve plasters on a smile that he isn't sure would convince anyone.

Least of all Angie Martinelli.

"Listen, we're just about to pull dinner out of the oven, it's just a casserole, but there's plenty of it. Come over, have a bite, why don't you?" Before he even has time to draw a breath for a protest, she holds up a finger, "Ah, ah, that was not a request, Rogers. I'm not about to let you cap off a long day with shitty food. And neither is Peggy. So take your keys and follow me."

Some things in life you just accept. They are constant. Like death and taxes. And the fact that you simply don’t decline a dinner invitation when Angie Martinelli looks at you like that. Steve slumps his shoulders, holds out his arms in defeat and grabs his keys. Angie looks actively pleased, even applauds herself with a big grin. Trudging after her, he promises himself to only stay for dinner. Eat some food, make a little conversation, then go back to his place and faceplant into bed.

“Ah, I see we’ll be three for dinner after all!” Peggy says when Angie all but ushers him into the kitchen.

“I can’t say no to you two,” Steve jokes, and his stomach gives a very timely growl.

Angie pats his shoulder, pulls out one of the chairs for him at the table, “Good, you’re finally learning.”

She goes to help Peggy, pressing a quick kiss to her girlfriend’s cheek. Steve feels silly just sitting there, but as soon as he even opens his mouth to ask if he can help, they both shush him and ask about his day.

“There’s really not a lot to tell,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “Same old, same old.”

“Steve, you work for one of the country’s most prestigious lifestyle magazines,” Peggy counters, cracking the oven open to check on the casserole. “I highly doubt there’s a lot of ‘same old, same old’.”

Peggy is one to talk, Steve thinks to himself. She works for the British embassy, but whenever he’s asked her what she does, her reply is vague and then she smiles and says it’s nothing important. Which, he always teases her, definitely sounds like it’s very important and would she have to kill him if she told him? It’s impressive how she can make a smile look absolutely terrifying.

“We just sent the upcoming issue to print, so we’ve all been working our asses off for the past couple of days. Sam tried to get me to go out and have a drink with him, but, you know…”

Angie sets a salad down in the middle of the table, taking a seat next to him, “I’m pretty sure I don’t. Sam’s the guy you work with, right? Is he cute? Oh… Wait, is- is there like an office romance kinda deal happening and that’s why you can’t go out for a drink?”

“No!” Steve almost scoots himself halfway out the kitchen. “God, no, Sam’s just a friend. Hell, he’d insist I’d introduce him as my wingman, but that’s never gonna happen.”

A timer beeps, and Peggy resets the alarm, taking out the dish from the oven and Steve’s stomach rumbles again. God, that smells good, all warm and hearty and savoury.

“Okay, so wanna run it by us again, why couldn't you go out for a drink with Sam?”

“I was just tired, ‘s all. Going out for drinks with Sam, with anybody from the workplace really, means just that. Drinks. Plural. It’s not so much the alcohol, it’s just… such a long time. At the end of any given day, I’ve already spent eight hours with these people, I do not need three more, steeped in beer or insanely expensive cocktails. I just… wanted to get home.”

Steve feels himself almost deflate when he speaks, the stress of the day, hell, of the entire week weighing down on him. InSight is a great place with great people, but today… moderation is key. A plate lands in front of him, laden with a steaming helping of casserole and a sizable pile of salad. Peggy and Angie smile at him.

“Eat up, Rogers. We’ll send you home with leftovers,” Peggy urges him. 

Smiling, he tucks in, and they both follow suit. For a while there’s nothing but the comforting sounds of forks clinking against plates, glasses being set down on the table, and hums of approval. It’s… nice. Steve doesn’t often feel lonely, but he knows he has a tendency to sometimes isolate himself from the rest of the world. He’ll get lost in reading or in a painting and a day can pass where he’ll function almost on autopilot. This, sharing a meal, just quietly sitting together with people that are somewhere between neighbours and friends, is good. He should do this more often. Maybe he’ll invite them over. Return the favour.

“So, new issue, huh?” Angie breaks the silence, and Steve can feel her gaze on him. “Will we see anything from you in there?”

Well.

His pictures are featured pretty often, and it’s not unusual as such for Angie to ask. But… knowing what’s about to come, Steve feels like he’d be spilling the beans just by answering the question honestly.

“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” he offers diplomatically, scraping the final bites of casserole onto his fork.

“Aw, come on, Rogers! You’re just saying that to make us buy the issue! Skinning us right down to the bone!”

“If I really wanted to skin you, I’d try to hook you up with a subscription.”

Angie waves his joke off, and they finish dinner soon after. They ask if he wants to stay for a while longer, but don’t push the issue when Steve politely declines. Peggy fills up a small container with casserole for him, and they both follow him to the door, bidding him goodnight as he enters his own apartment. He’s more asleep than awake by the time he gets into his own room, but he has the foresight to pull out his luggage so he can pack tomorrow before he finally falls into bed, smiling and thinking to himself how much easier things will be now that this project is out of the way.

Only it isn’t.

The issue hits the stand, it sells out faster than any other issue in InSight’s history. There’s even champagne one day and Steve’s ears burn red hot when Hill thanks them for an outstanding job. He’s ambushed by both Peggy and Angie after three days of successfully dodging them, Angie even smacking him over the shoulder while Peggy pulls out glasses for them to toast in the slightly less expensive champagne they brought. 

A week passes. He works, he packs for his trip north. Some people insist on high fiving him. He really can’t wait to spend Christmas away from the city. The evening before he leaves, he sets a fresh canvas on his easel and stares at it for a good half hour trying to figure out what to paint. The Spotify playlist on his phone shuffles to a new song. Steve heaves a sigh, pulls a couple of colours, prepares his palette, hesitates only for a second before laying the first brush stroke.

There.

It’s done. He snorts and shakes his head, thinking to himself, “Make something of it, Rogers.”

It’s a start, and he can leave it like that while he’s away. A whole blessed weekend of no one but himself in an airbnb in Rhode Island. He feels refreshed when he gets back, a smile on his face when he falls asleep in his own bed, a pep in his step when he takes the train into Manhattan. The good feeling lasts until the next day. Hill asks him to come to his office via emails. He’s sitting in his little booth, editing images from a shoot he did earlier. The spot between his eyes is starting to ache again, but he really needs to finish this. When his phone pings with the email notification, Steve pushes his glasses back down, he blinks a couple of times before he opens the message.

_From: Maria Hill_

_To: Steve Rogers_

_Subject: (none)_

_My office. Now._

_M._

That’s… odd. Steve peeks over the edge of the cubicle, spotting Sam, whose desk is at the other end of the room. The desk is vacant, but that might just mean Sam is out on assignment. Huh. Steve saves his work, locks the screen and crosses the office to get to Hill.

And Sam… is there?

“What’s this about?” Steve asks, shutting the door behind him.

Hill looks at him with something that is almost a glare, but she nods to the chair next to Sam. That feeling of being called into the principal’s office hits Steve like a ton of bricks again. He shares a look with Sam, who answers with the most subtle of shrugs.

“The Palace has reached out,” Hill starts, then holds out two crisp, white envelopes.

“If that’s a check, it’s the fanciest check I’ve ever gotten,” Sam quips, leaning in to take them both, handing one to Steve after a glance at them.

The envelope is thick, a creamy white with the royal insignia embossed on the flap, his name printed in an elegant calligraphy font. Turning it over again, Steve looks up at Maria, eyebrows knitted.

“What is this?” he asks again, at the same time Sam says:

“Holy shit!”

Hill shifts in her chair, “I thought we’d had a discussion about your use of language, Wilson.”

“All due respect, boss, but you just handed us invitations to the coronation! Did- Was this some perk you just casually neglected to mention before?”

“Absolutely not,” Hill snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “I had no leverage in those discussions. They were messaged over with a note from Miss Romanoff thanking us for, and I quote, ‘a thoroughly excellent final result’, and that we should consider this a most heartfelt thank you from the royal family.”

Steve’s hands tremble, opening the envelope and pulling out the invitation, gilded text on thick cardstock inviting him to be present at the coronation of His Majesty King James VII at National Cathedral. King. James VII. He’ll be there, Steve will be there to witness history. He’ll be there, he’ll have to- His thoughts run away from him, a slight panic settling in his stomach. He doesn’t own a good suit. He needs a suit. He doesn’t really, but now he does. Shit, he can’t even remember when the last time was that he wore a proper suit, tie and all. So, okay, suit. New tie. Shoes, too, damn it. 

“I’m gonna need to isolate myself,” Sam says, falling back in his chair. 

“It’s three months away, Wilson, you’re not-”

Travel. He has to get to D.C, too. Hotels, shit, they’ll be booked out, he needs to find something now. Sam. Sam also. And Hill. But Sam, mostly because they can share and split the cost.

“I am not getting sick before this thing! And you, mr. Seasonal Flu, you stay the fuck away from me!”

Steve can see Sam shaking an accusatory finger at him from the corner of his eye. Great. Another thing to worry about. RSVP. Suit. Tie. Shoes. Travel. Not getting sick. 

Fuck.

So of course most shoots he has scheduled for the rest of the month are outdoors. Because great. Steve wears a jacket and a scarf and sweats his ass off. Sam takes a shot of ginger almost every time Steve sees him. Between them, they book a hotel just off Dupont Circle, and Steve frantically looks up suits and balks at the prices before he swallows down his fear and talks to one of the fashion editors who recommends a few rental places that deal with higher end suits. It takes another week before he actually contacts them and makes an appointment, and he feels like he’s sweating bullets when they have him try on a couple of three piece suits, followed by something the assistant helping him out calls a morning suit that fits him in a way that makes him feel both calm and nervous at the same time. He snaps pictures of himself in each getup, texts Sam in all caps because he needs someone to just get him out of his head and tell him which suit to get, damn it.

Wilson

_ >>whoa, lookin sharp Rogers _

_ >>where the hell are you? _

Steve groans.

Me

_ >>NOT THE POINT SAM _

_ >>I NEED TO PICK A SUIT _

The three dots keep blinking for what must be at least an eternity and a half before Sam’s reply pops up.

Wilson

_ >>I mean, without having consulted anyone except approximately 50 000 blog posts about what people have worn to other big royal shindigs, I think we can get away with a really nice three piece. Second one you sent looked real good _

Steve looks at himself in the mirror. The morning suit is… it’s good, but the guy looking back at him is almost a stranger. At least in the three piece suits he didn’t feel like too much of a fraud. He requests back the second suit, a Gucci masterpiece that Steve doesn’t even want to entertain the thought about how much it would cost to actually buy. The assistant leaves him alone again, and Steve turns and spins and looks at himself again before sending another pic to Sam.

Wilson

_ >>go for it _

_ >>but like, with a slightly lighter tie, I think _

Me

_ >>A lighter tie? _

Wilson

_ >>idk, something about etiquette, my brain is scrambled. ask the store people _

Steve sighs. This is already more than his own brain can handle. He calls the assistant back in, and the tie is switched to something in a lighter shade, he’s given shoes that fit with the suit and is offered a myriad of other accoutrements that he says no to because somewhere in the assistant’s sales pitch he heard the word “optional”. Back in his own clothing, Steve books the suit, scheduling it to be messaged over to him the day before they leave for D.C. He sweats the entire train ride home thinking about the absolutely bonkers price he’s paying for it. At least he won’t look like a schmuck.

At least there’s enough work for him to do to comfortably ignore the upcoming trip right until the week of. Sam messages him on and off every day. Has Steve double-checked and confirmed their hotel? Did he RSVP? He’ll remember to bring the invite, right? It riles Steve up to the point where he needs to make a checklist of all the things he needs to do and have and check them off one by one so he can look at it anytime panic strikes him.

He looks at it a lot. 

Every time Sam messages him.

When he packs his carry-on.

The second he’s shut the door after his suit is delivered.

When they board the train.

After they check into the hotel.

Right after they return from the best pizza Steve has had outside of New York.

Before they step outside, dressed up to the nines.

“Quit worrying, Steve,” Sam tells him, already out the door and halfway down the corridor. “You need four things. Room key, invitation, phone and your wallet. Wait, no, make that five. Key, invitation, phone, wallet, and some goddamn swagger. You look like you’re about to quiver out of the suit, and that’s not the kind of fun we’re gonna have today.”

Steve pats his suit jacket. Key. Invitation. Phone. Wallet. Check. Okay. He’s going. His feet are moving. Relax. Sam has gone ahead and called for the elevator, tapping at his phone when Steve joins him.

“Our Uber is ten minutes out,” he reports, and god damn it, how can he look so calm?

“We’ll text Maria when we’re there?” Steve hates how it comes out as a question.

“Yeah. Relax man. You’re not the one who’s going to have all eyes on him today. We can just sit back and enjoy this. We’re witnessing history.”

Nodding, he lets out a breath just as the elevator doors slide open. It’s fine. They’re okay. And yeah. Steve is not the one who is going to walk down the aisle of the National damn Cathedral today while the entire nation watches. Thank. God.

They make it to the cathedral, and somehow manage to find Maria, get through all the security checkpoints and be directed to their seating section. It’s not the best, pretty far back, but Steve is not complaining. He’s seated closest to the aisle, three people next to him that have steadfastly been staring straight ahead ever since they sat down. Steve figures he should maybe do the same. If he tries to spot every famous face that passes him by, he’s gonna end up with his head spinning like something out of a horror movie.

It’s an interminable time later that Steve is nearly jolted out of his seat when music starts, grand and echoing through the cathedral. On cue, the congregation rises from their seats and turns, looking back as the doors are opened wide. Row upon row of men and women parade past them, dressed up and not sparing any of them a glance. The royal regalia passes them, and with that, there is a brief pause in the music before it starts again, rising in volume and Steve swears he can feel it in his bones.

He’s not sure why, but at the sight of King James, his breath catches. He is… God, handsome is not enough. His hair is combed back, looking almost black in the brilliant light flooding in through the Rose window. Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he tried, the image of the King before him miles away from the man he photographed in New York and yet Steve can see him, can sense him beneath the severe military uniform he wears under the ermine-lined robe and the hard set of his mouth. There’s a moment as the King walks down the aisle when their eyes meet. It’s quick and as soon as it’s over, he tells himself he must have imagined it, must have dreamed up the flash of recognition that he thought coloured the King’s features. 

What are the odds they’d find each other in this crowd?

Heart fluttering in his chest, Steve sits back, thumbing at the leaflet with the hymn lyrics and the outline of the coronation ceremony. This is crazy. He’s here. He’s- The universe in all its infinite mystery has pulled the strings on his life and he’s here. He listens to the music, doesn’t even bother to crane his neck when the archbishop recites the oath and the King – _JamesJamesJames,_ a small voice chants in his head – solemnly promises to uphold it. Steve feels… oddly proud by the end. He thinks of the photoshoot, of the man named James who just wanted to do good by his people, smiles as that man stands up at the front of the church, a golden crown on his head, King of his people.

They all rise again as the exit procession starts. Steve’s pulse picks up again, and he’s thankful for his relative height that allows him to spot the King well before anyone else. This time, he doesn’t imagine it. James seeks out his glance, and the solemn line his mouth is set in pulls into the smallest smile, softening his gaze. It’s almost like relief, Steve thinks, subtly bowing his head and smiling back. He would be relieved, too, to see a familiar face if their roles were reversed. The fact that he’s the one? It makes something swell and bubble inside him. James holds his gaze for as long as is possible, and warmth bubbles in Steve’s chest.

He’s not imagining it.

Maybe it was still a coincidence, but he didn’t imagine it. He smiles through the rest of the long procession, through the security checkpoints on the way out, through the fancy dinner they go to, courtesy of the publishing company, through the Uber ride home. Back at the hotel, Steve carefully takes off the suit, checking it for any kind of damage before zipping it up in the garment bag. Their train back to New York leaves early as fuck tomorrow, and Sam looks like he’s sleepwalking through packing and brushing his teeth.

They’re back in New York just before 10 am, somewhat sleepily saying goodbye to each other before heading off in different directions. Steve dozes through the train ride to Brooklyn, sighs up every flight of stairs, wonders if sleeping on the couch would be a good idea. His eyes fall on the canvas still propped on the easel by the window. He’s been working on and off on it, seemingly without any clear direction but still something has been taking shape and he has not been able to pinpoint what.

In the soft light of his apartment, going on too little sleep and two days of way too much excitement, Steve realizes what he has been painting. The Manhattan skyline. As seen from the royal suite at The Plaza. As seen by the King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> \- The coronation invitation is based on the invitation to the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, as was the dresscode that Steve tries to navigate. For the queen's coronation, the dresscode stated the following for male civilians: "[...]one of the forms of court dress as laid down in the Lord Chamberlain's Regulations for Dress at Court, or evening dress with knee breeches or trousers, or morning dress, or dark lounge suits."  
> \- The choice to make Bucky's regnal number VII was made by looking at the presidents of the United States. To date, there have been six presidents named James, and I figured it would be as a good reason as any for which number James Bucky would be as king.  
> \- The pizzeria Steve and Sam go to in D.C is &pizza, and I swear to god, if you ever go to D.C, you HAVE to go there and have their American Honey pizza. And their mango/passionfruit soda.  
> \- The National Cathedral has a gargoyle shaped like Darth Vader


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner by my amazing collaborator LemonadeHearts.

“Steve, I’m sorry to hassle you, but I really need the pictures for Fitz’s feature, I’m down to the wire.”

Phil is looking more than a little nervous, wringing his hands together as he approaches Steve. They’re approaching deadline again, there’s a staff meeting looming at the end of the week, and the tension is palpable when walking through the office. There’s no chit chat, people are glued to their laptops, the odd curse is thrown around. Steve’s not immune, he’s been juggling four bigger projects for the upcoming issue.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I thought I sent them,” he apologizes, bringing up their collective file share software. The images are sitting there, ready to be sent. “There, you should have them. Sorry, I got sidetracked by Anderson’s feature, his email had so many typos in it I almost walked over to see if he was okay.”

“Tell me about it, my entire department is gonna need one hell of a big drink and a weeklong nap after this is wrapped up,” Phil laughs, shaking his head as he turns to go back to his desk. “Thanks for the images, Rogers.”

“Make me look good!”

Phil throws up a hand in response and Steve chuckles. At least it’s not a middle finger. Rolling his shoulders, he turns back to his editing software. He knows he should try to be efficient, not get so hung up on details no one but him will likely ever look at, but he’s getting really, really worked up about one image that he likes enough to play around with it, but it’s just not getting where he wants it to go no matter what he tweaks.

Sam drags him to lunch after noon, and it’s good to step away for a bit, if only to put physical distance between himself and the damn image that won’t turn out the way he wants. The banh mi helps, too, making him realize he is starving. He goes back for a second before they head back, and he just about finishes it before they’re called into the staff meeting. It’s long-winded and boring, and Steve’s trying not to look like he’s actively falling asleep because even though he could care less about what Nick Fury is saying, he does not want to get on the man’s bad side. Half way through the meeting, his phone vibrates in his pocket. Steve sneaks a look, but only sees an unknown number and lets it go to voicemail. Five minutes later, another call. Ten minutes after that, another call. Sam looks discreetly over his shoulder and Steve shrugs. It can wait.

“Who the hell do you have blowing up your phone?” Sam asks under his breath when they exit the meeting half an hour later.

Steve shrugs, unlocking his phone. Five missed calls in total, all from the same unknown number. “Beats me. World’s most incessant telemarketer?”

“Dude, just tell them no. You give them an inch and they will come for your soul.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I once got stuck with a subscription for two years before I could get it cancelled,” Steve says with a grimace.

“A subscription for what?”

“Trust me, you do not want to know.” Steve looks at the number again. “Look, I’m just gonna call them back, see who it is. I’ve been sending out feelers to a couple of galleries, this could be one of them.”

Sam gives him a thumbs up before walking off to his desk. There’s about two hours left of the day, and much as Steve wishes he could slack his way through them, he also knows he’s still got a pile of photos to go through and send off to Phil’s department. Just a quick call, check who it is, and if it’s one of the galleries he’s been courting, he can tell them he’ll call back at a better time. Easy. He ducks into one of the bathrooms, hoping for a little privacy, and calls.

_ “Hello?” _

A man’s voice, deep, sounds a little stressed. Definitely make this quick.

“Hi, this is Steve Rogers. I noticed you’d called me a couple of times. I’m sorry I didn’t answer, I was in a job meeting.”

_ “Steve!”  _

That’s… that sounds an awful lot like relief. Steve furrows his brow, looks quickly at his screen and wracks his brain to possibly recognize the number.

“Yes, that’s me. I’m sorry, who am I speaking with?”

_ “Oh. It’s… It’s James.” _

James. He runs through the galleries he’s sent out a compilation of his portfolio to, tries to remember all the owners. Nothing rings a bell. James.

_ “We, uh… We met at the end of last year. You, uh… god… You took my picture.” _

It’s as if Steve’s brain screeches to a wild halt and his body just follows suit and prepares to fully shut down as the realization sets in. He is talking to-

“Y-your majesty?”

_ “Please, call me James. Really, really, please, call me James.” _

That’s- Okay. Maybe that’s… Steve is desperately trying to kickstart his higher brain functions again because he feels hollow as a bell and a universe away from being able to handle what is happening. He squeezes his eyes shut, taking a breath. The King. Is on the phone. With him. And wants him to call him-

“James. Okay. I…” What the hell does one even say to a king when you call him back? “How… are you?”

Steve wants to kick himself. He fervently wishes Frankie Rossi from sixth grade would suddenly materialize and kick him hard in the shins like he used to when he was in that mood, which was surprisingly often, because  _ what. the. fuck _ . What the actual and entire fuck did he just say?  _ How are you _ ? Who the fuck says that to a fucking king? Screw Frankie, Steve will definitely kick himself in the shin for that one. The K-  _ James _ lets out a huff.

_ “God, I get asked that every day. I- Can I be honest?” _

“Of course. That’s- Be honest. I don’t mind.”

There’s a sound, it makes Steve think of falling into bed after a long day, and it’s enough to send his mind reeling again because  _ no. _ He is not having that kind of talk with… James. He is not. It’s not possible.

_ “I just got back from D.C and I’ve been smiling so much it hurts and nodding like a freaking bobble head figure. Christ, and there are actual bobble heads of me, it’s- Shit... I have no fucking clue what the fuck I’m doing and-” _

James lets out a frustrated grunt that definitely sounds like he might be trying not to scream into a pillow. Steve needs a chair. He needs a chair fucking stat or his legs are gonna give out. Given the immediate lack of seating options, he leans against the wash stand and hopes like hell it will hold. He does not need a repeat of junior year in college. 

“D.C. seemed nice,” he starts, with exactly zero clue as to where to take the conversation, “I mean, that was my first time there since we did a field trip in sixth grade, but it holds up nicely. Obviously not New York. I mean, nothin’ beats New York, right? So, if nothing else, it’s gotta be good to be back, right?”

His panic spikes because he is talking to the King and this is what he’s rambling on about? Extolling the virtues of New York and bringing up old school field trips? Jesus Christ, he needs his mouth sewn shut.

_ “I almost wanted to ask my driver if we could drive by Katz’s but he already looked so done I didn’t have the heart to even open my mouth,”  _ James laughs, and it seems like such a normal thing, almost too normal. 

“I’m sure you could get it delivered?” he suggests, only half-joking.

_ “Yeah, that’d be the order of the century. Two pastrami sandwiches, please deliver to the royal palace, it’s that big hunk of a thing right in the middle of the city, impossible to miss, just drop them off at the gates.” _

Steve huffs out a laugh, “I mean, you’d probably make the day for the people at Katz’s. Are they really that good? I’ve never been.”

_ “Steve!”  _ The outrage, although completely joking, is clear in the King’s voice, and there’s more noise, like he’s scrambling to sit up.  _ “Steve, are you serious? You’ve never been to Katz’s?” _

“I… I’ve thought about it? I’ve just never ended up there,” Steve offers, rubbing the back of his neck.

_ “Unbelievable. How is it that between the two of us, I should be the one who’s never set foot in there, and yet I’ve been there. In person, even! For shame, Steven.” _

Steve groans, but it’s a halfhearted thing, tempered by a smile that persistently tugs at the corners of his mouth, “Aw, jeez, not Steven!”

James only barely manages to cover his laugh when he counters:  _ “It’s either that or I’m making a royal edict that one Steve Rogers of InSight Magazine must immediately report to Katz’s Deli for a pastrami sandwich or face the repercussions of disobeying his sovereign.” _

“Oh, no, not repercussions!” Steve deadpans with barely contained laughter. “How awful.”

_ “Go get the damn sandwich, Steven, or so help me god, I’m picking up a pen right this second. Jesus, now I want a sandwich, too. Look what you’ve done.” _

It’s not that he means to. He really doesn’t. But as always, when he really needs it, his brain-to-mouth filter fails, and while in the past he’s had a few instances where it’s failed pretty hard, this time it fails  _ spectacularly. _

“Maybe Your Majesty will reconsider any repercussions if I get a pastrami sandwich for you, too?”

His body goes cold the second the words slip out of his mouth, his eyes bulging in the face of what he’s just said. What. The. Fuck. On the one hand, at least he is alone and there are no witnesses to this. On the other hand, it would be really, really, really great if the floor just opened up and swallowed him whole. It’s not just the thing that is said. It’s a lot, and it is stupid and he needs a designated driver for his brain, but it’s the way he says it. It sounds suggestive. It sounds flirty. It sounds like a surefire way to get hung up on. By the country’s king. 

_ "Don't tempt me. Or quit tempting me, more like it. I am already running through how to reimburse you. Romanoff's gonna hate me." _

The idea of being reimbursed by the Palace for one measly sandwich somehow manages to horrify Steve more than how he's been behaving so far. He'd might have to give his name for some sort of record. There'd be a receipt. And he'd be terrified of losing it. Hell no.

"Would it be very awful if I just… bought you the sandwich? No reimbursement needed? You could send someone to pick it up from Katz's or…" The little pause that follows hurls him into dangerous territory. So many dreams and wish fulfillment fantasies make a place for themselves in his mind's eye in the seconds it takes for him to swallow thickly and add in a mumble: "...or something."

_ “Or… you could- I mean, if you want to, if you’re not busy- maybe you could bring it here. And we could eat sandwiches.” _

Steve is pretty sure he misheard. His brain has surely broken down and he is imagining this. His body won’t even do what it’s supposed to do, which is to ask “what?” His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Instead, because his body and brain together is a special kind of stupid, he blinks. A lot.

_ “Steve? I’m sorry, this was… maybe it was stupid. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. It’s not- you don’t have to. I promise. No repercussions.” _ His words are tripping over themselves, and Steve can practically see him backpedalling.  _ “God, I shouldn’t have- I just need one thing. I need one normal thing. I’m sorry, this was- I should have thought of something else.” _

And Steve’s body, and Steve’s brain, who continue to prove they are terrible together, make him stand up straight and say: “No, it’s fine. Sure. I’ll get us sandwiches from Katz’s.”

_ “I’m gonna, I’m gonna go- wait, what?” _

Steve feels like somewhere, some part of him is screaming the very same thing. But he figures, he’s in it now, he’s opened his great big mouth, and somehow not gotten into a boatload of trouble, so why not go for it? He relaxes a little, leans back against the sink.

“Sandwiches. From Katz’s. Two pastrami sandwiches.”

James gives a little sigh,  _ “Yeah. That’s… that would be really great. Maybe…” _

“What?” Steve can’t help but smile at how unsure, how timid and…  _ normal _ James sounds. Like he was any other guy and this was-

No. Stop that thought. Steve squeezes his eyes shut. James is not a normal guy.

_ “Maybe you could get some of their cookies, too?” _

Something between a sigh and a laugh trips across his lips, and he shakes his head. So normal. So not normal. 

“Of course. Cookies are essential. How do we… do this? I mean, me. Coming over.”

_ “Oh. Oh, uh… I could send someone to pick you up?”  _ James suggests after a beat of silence.

Steve raises his eyebrows. It’s not an entirely bad idea. Just… He’ll be picked up. From the Lower East Side. Oh, god.

“Please don’t send a limo. Or anything flashy. Like, do you guys have anything that’s slightly beat up at all in your fleet of cars? Bonus if it's a little rusty.”

James laughs in his ear, and Steve swears it’s the best sound he’s heard all day and has to squeeze his eyes shut again and beat his fluttering heart down because no no no, this is not something to get this excited over. This is… hell, he can’t even put a name to what this is, but it’s not something he should be getting all fluttery and mushy about. It’s not. It’s really, really not.

_ “I don’t think so. I can probably make sure it doesn’t have the royal seal anywhere visible though. Why don’t you text me when you start heading over there, I’ll try to make sure you won’t have to wait too long outside. Someone will meet you once you are outside.” _

“Aw, not even gonna greet me yourself?” Steve teases, but it feels okay. Slightly. In a very weird and surreal way.

_ “Punk.” _

He doesn’t even think before he retorts: “Jerk.”

They hang up, slightly awkward in their goodbyes, and Steve walks back out into the office feeling like he had fallen down the rabbit hole and been dragged back up by his heel. It’s all so normal. The afternoon buzz, people itching to wrap up and go home, working on their projects, eyes glued to screens. He has to force himself not to skip, not to scream, not to show any sign of what just happened. Just over one and a half hours left. He can do it. He has work. It’ll be fine.

It’s a nightmare.

The minutes slouch ahead slowly, and by the time he can clock out, his foot is tapping under his desk, he’s got his laptop powered down, all of his stuff neatly put away and his messenger bag already slung over his shoulder. He calls out a goodbye to Sam over his shoulder and all but sprints to the elevators. He has a… sandwich delivery-dinner-not-a-date? He texts James while he walks to the train, gets off at 2nd Avenue and heads east. There’s a line almost through the door, and for a moment he considers texting James again that he might take a while. The June heat outside is still sweltering and by the time Steve gets inside he can barely focus on the menu board. He feels a little unsteady ordering, but the woman behind the counter just smiles and talks him through it, and by the time he pays for two sandwiches and two cookies, he’s smiling from ear to ear and is ready to pinky promise he’ll be back soon.

Outside, he looks up and down the street, standing off to the side from the entrance, waiting. A slight fear starts to creep up his spine when he realizes he really has no idea what kind of car to look for. 

“Steve Rogers?”

A little down the street, a town car rolls to a halt, and someone calls his name through an open window. He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck, but he hurries over, opening one of the backseat doors and slips inside quickly. The interior of the car is cool, the A/C feeling icy against his skin. The driver looks at him through the rearview mirror, gives a nod and pulls out from the curb.

“Hi,” Steve greets, awkwardly holding his bag of sandwiches like it’s a blankie. “Um. Steve. Rogers.”

“So I gathered.”

Right. Of course. Steve wants to slap himself, and his gaze drops to the floor. This is insane. This is not normal. He’s meeting the king for a deli sandwich dinner and he’s wearing the rattiest pair of off-brand Converse known to man and he’s probably got a patch of sweat darkening the back of his shirt and- Jesus, this is not normal.

He quietly freaks out while they make their way uptown, knuckles whitening the closer they get. He barely notices when they come to a halt at a checkpoint, and he nearly jumps out of his seat when the window closest to him is lowered and a security guard prompts him for name, ID and what business he has at the palace. It’s another bizarre experience, and he fully expects them to question the validity of his statement, to laugh as he sheepishly holds up the paper bag with Katz’s logo on it.

The guard nods without further comment and waves them through. Steve thinks he might need the paper bag more than the sandwiches very soon. He tries to focus, looks outside the window. They’re heading to what looks like an interior courtyard, curving towards an entrance with another guard and a… butler? Some kind of staff at least if their sharp suit is anything to go by.

“Mr. Rogers?”

Steve is barely out of the car before his name is called again. He doesn’t trust his voice, or his brain for that matter, so he just nods. The butler-person nods curtly.

“Follow me, please. His Majesty is in the west wing, so I hope you don’t mind a little walk.”

The photographer-side of him marvels at the architecture as they walk down the hallways. The lighting, the colours, the  _ possibilities _ makes his fingers itch. What he’d give to even once in his life have access to this kind of setting for a photoshoot. It’s almost enough to make him forget that he is freaking out, and he even drags his feet through one particular hallway.

“Does…” Steve starts, tearing his eyes away from the walls and the ceiling. “Sorry, does… does this happen, um…”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘often’, sir,” comes the answer, the man never even looking over his shoulder as they turn another corner. “And the answer is no. I’m even confident enough to say this is a first. Now, if you please, mr. Rogers, through the door ahead. His Majesty is waiting.”

Steve nods, maybe a little too aggressively, “Right. Okay. Um, thank you?”

The butler, and Steve really has no idea if that is the man’s title, nods again, “I’d normally remind you to please remember protocol when you’re in the presence of your sovereign, but I feel like it might fall on deaf ears. Two pairs, in fact.”

Well. 

“I’ll try my best,” he promises, a little smile tugging at his lips.

“I suppose that is the best I can hope for.”

Steve only nods, looks to the door ahead, and draws a deep breath as he approaches it. Okay. He can do this. He definitely can. He is a confident guy, he can treat this like any other dinner something-or-other. 

Wait.

Wait, wait wait. Does he knock? Does he just… enter? Maybe knock. Knocking is polite. Okay, knocking. He’s good. Confident. Relaxed. And it all flies out the window when he hears James’ muted voice asking him to enter. 

The King looks remarkably relaxed, almost anachronistic the way he’s lounging in a chair that has to be at least a hundred years old while dressed in jeans and a henley, a pair of pristine white sneakers on his feet. He looks up from his phone, locking the screen and his face lights up with a smile that Steve can’t help but reciprocate.

“Two pastrami sandwiches?” Steve says, holding up the now slightly stained bag. “And two cookies, possibly a little mangled.”

“God, you are a lifesaver,” the King tells him, rising from his seat. “Also, you’re welcome. I can’t believe you’ve called yourself a New Yorker before this, you heathen.”

Steve snorts, digging out one of the wrapped sandwiches for him, “First off, I never said I had called myself a New Yorker, and second, I haven’t even tried the thing yet. Maybe I won’t like it?”

The face the King makes holds the outrage as if Steve had suggested New York was not the best city on the planet, and through some feat of perseverance, he manages not to break into laughter. It quickly melts away, though, replaced with unadulterated joy when the King sinks his teeth into the sandwich, moaning around it. Steve has to busy himself with unwrapping his own, because he will absolutely not linger on that sound. Nope, he will not, not now, not later, not ever.

“Oh, god. Oh, Jesus Christ. Mom will kill me if she finds out I’m eating this in here,” the King mumbles between chews, his eyes fluttering close, “but Jesus… I have no regrets.”

One bite in, and Steve feels like he has seen the face of God. He is also acutely aware of how he is essentially in a situation similar to eating pasta with a white shirt. Only the white shirt is an entire fucking room, furniture and all. But  _ holy fuck _ . How has he lived a life before this moment? He needs to go back, if only to swear allegiance to Katz’s.

The fact that they don’t talk, just devour their food between grunts and poorly suppressed moans doesn’t bother Steve. It should, it’s been a source of frequent worry in the past whenever he’s been out to dinner with someone and conversation has stalled within five minutes. This is… weirdly comfortable. Is it possible the sandwiches are magical?

“Thank you.”

Steve has leaned back into the couch, and if he wasn’t so goddamn full and content, he’d be freaking out about it. It’s fucking  _ goldleafed _ . At the King’s voice, he lifts his head to peer at him, finding James sitting almost on the edge of the chair, wringing his hands and looking about as freaked out as Steve remembers him from the photoshoot.

“‘S no biggie,” Steve says, clearing his throat. “I feel like I should thank you.”

James snorts at that, shaking his head and mumbling something that sounds like Steve should maybe take a little offense to it. “I’m serious,” he continues, looking at Steve with sincerity, hands still working, a nervous habit. “This has been… I told you, back in December. I don’t know how to be king. I have no idea what I’m doing. I feel like I’m just floating around and smiling and shaking hands and nodding my head. I know my life wasn’t normal before, but I miss it. I miss this.”

“Sandwiches?” Steve rights himself, sitting a little straighter. This is not a slouch-appropriate conversation.

“Well, yeah. But mostly…” James sighs, looks left towards the large windows, a pale grey sky washing the room in soft light, “mostly the normalcy. All of this is- I feel like I’ve gone around pretending ever since my father died, and especially after the coronation. I walk around thinking at any moment someone is going to figure out what a fraud I am. I needed something… something normal, I suppose.”

“So you called me?” Steve doesn’t mean to sound so incredulous, but he is. Of all the people, of all the friends and family James could have called, he somehow called him instead. “How did you even get my number?”

James sits perfectly still, but something about the way he squints and worries his lower lip tells Steve that the King is squirming on the inside. It’s almost a little cute. Or at least very amusing. Kind of cute though.

“Natasha,” he replies. “She’s… We’ve known each other for a couple of years, she got put in charge of handling my PR when she was brought in. I rather think they tried to haze her by making me her responsibility, but she- She’s great. So when we put together my closest team, I asked to have her reassigned. She’s my personal secretary now.” James laughs under his breath and shakes his head. “She hates the title.”

“Sneaky bastard,” Steve teases, hoping the King won’t take offense. “Conned her into giving you my number?”

“Not so much conned as straight up asked, to tell you the truth.”

“And what did she say? Can’t imagine just asking for a random photographer’s number didn’t solicit any questions.”

James furrows his brow, “No, she… She didn’t say anything?”

“Oh.” That’s… surprising. Steve looks down at his own hands, clasped over his lap.

“Steve?”

He looks up again, and now there’s a crease between the King’s eyebrows, painting worry clear on his features. Great. Steve swallows before he speaks again:

“I’m just… surprised. If I walked up to my friend and asked them for a number of a very random person, he’d have a lot of questions. I… kinda imagined there’d be a lot of questions. Not just from Natasha, but everyone else. No one asked me who I am or why I’m here.”

“They know who you are. You had to be cleared,” James replies, but the worry is still there, now bleeding into his voice.

“Oh. Okay. Good, I guess? I won’t end up in some shoddy tabloid rag, right? Like… ‘mysterious stranger picked up by royal cortege’, or… ‘Sources close to the King confirms a mystery guest’?”

James’s eyes bulge, and he scoots forward, almost out of the chair. “No! No, no, they’re- The car didn’t have the insignia, I told them- And- and everyone here is-”

Steve gapes. Well, that backfired spectacularly. Note to self: moderate jokes around this guy.

“Hey, hey, it’s fine, I was kidding. Sorry, I didn’t mean to- it’s fine. I mean, I’m more comfortable being behind the camera than in front of it, but if by some miracle some pap got lucky and managed to figure out who picked me up, or got a tip that I was here, we can figure something out.”

James still looks like he is seconds away from a full-fledged fit of panic, only managing a nod as he sits back down, hands now rubbing his knees. Steve wants to punch himself. The King brought him here to feel normal, not to be launched into panic mode.

“We could…”  _ For fuck’s sake, Steve, think.  _ “We could say, uh… That I was here on business?”

James’s gaze finally focuses back on him. “Business? Okay. Business. Shit, I’m so fucking- I shouldn’t swear. I’m so sorry. Business. Business works.”

Steve smiles, nodding and leaning forward a little, “Yeah, we could… I could be here because… because you were so impressed with my work that you wanted to invite me over to possibly discuss doing a portrait series? That’s a thing, right? New sovereigns commision an official portrait?”

“It’s… usually paintings,” James hesitantly counters.

“I paint. Either way, I’d have to have a reference. I doubt you’d want to stand around and pose for a good amount of days. And we live in the modern world. Nothing wrong with going digital.”

“Okay.” James’s shoulders slump down, tension bleeding out of him as he drags a hand through his hair. “Okay, yeah. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He waves his hand a little, a miserable little smile on his lips. “I’m a mess.”

“Nah, you’re good,” Steve tells him, wishing he was sitting next to him instead of opposite him. “Haven’t sent me running for the woods yet. Although I should probably head home soon.”

He hates that it’s something he has to say, but he really can’t stay any longer. It’ll take some time to get home, and he wants to take advantage of the light and finish a painting he’s been working on. James immediately rises and Steve follows suit without thinking about it.

“Of course. I’ll make sure someone drives you home.”

“No, that’s fine. Train is quicker, honestly.”

The King shakes his head, “No, no, I insist. You came here when I asked, hell, you got me a sandwich and listened to me whine. It’s the least I can do.”

“How about I accept a ride to a train station?”

They bicker back and forth until James finally relents and agrees that Steve will be dropped off at the nearest F train stop, and he sends off a text, getting a reply not even a minute later.

“Someone will come take you to the car. Thank you, again, for coming out to see me. I’ll… try not to do that again.”

“It’s okay,” Steve smiles, holding out his hand. The King shakes it with a small smile. “And don’t feel like you need to be a stranger. If you need someone… normal, I guess, you can text me. Or call.”

James lights up, and it’s all Steve can do not to smile like a loon. He feels light in the face of it, feels content and maybe a little proud that he’s the cause, that his little display of kindness made James smile. They shake hands, touch lingering just a little longer than is strictly necessary. His grip is warm, firm, thumb brushing lightning quick over Steve’s knuckle. They say their goodbyes, James sitting back down in the chair as Steve walks to the door.

“For the record, James,” Steve says, hand on the door knob. “This heathen is Brooklynite first, New Yorker second. And there are some pretty awesome places you should try out there.”

James leans back in the chair, one arm draped over the backrest, one leg crossed over the other, looking pleased at Steve’s use of his name, “Oh, really? How can you be sure I haven’t done a very thorough vetting of everything Brooklyn has to offer?”

It sounds like a challenge, like a cracked door, and much as Steve wants to keep a level head and not read into this too much, he can’t help but grasp that little beam of light shining in. He looks down at his shoes, at the glaring contrast of his ratty sneakers against polished mahogany. Screw it.

“I guess we’d have to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> \- I have not been to Katz's. There was a tentative plan to go one day when hubs and I were in New York last year, but we got derailed walking up from Wall Street and ended up eating pizza in Washington Square Park instead. Next time. Whenever traveling is a thing that happens again.  
> \- Steve's incident during junior year of college may or may not be inspired by a friend of mine's drunken adventure that ended with them coming home, drunk as a skunk and almost breaking the sink in the bathroom  
> \- When I first wrote this, Bucky mentioned asking Steve to get cookies, and the I promptly forgot about the cookies, so I nearly broke something laughing when my beta, Beka, left me an all caps comment when Steve gets to the palace that read, "BUT WHERE ARE THE COOKIES STEVEN", and honestly, I ask myself the same thing on a daily basis.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner by my lovely collaborator LemonadeHearts. Beta by my own wonder woman Beka. Brooklyn food tips by my incredible friend Loup. 
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much for all the love and comments. They make me do a giddy little dance.

It’s quiet after the lunch-dinner-not-a-date-meeting. Steve hasn’t expected anything but that. He goes back to Katz’s twice. The second time, the same woman who served him the first time is at the counter again and he waxes poetic and makes her blush and giggle with his praise.

Projects come and go, he pitches in for a feature that’s scheduled for the September issue, Sam teases him about hanging around beautiful people on a regular basis and still not getting any. Shows what Sam knows. Steve deliberately does not tell him about the one night stand he somehow lucks into after a photoshoot at the beginning of July. No one from the shoot, but from the bar they go to when the day is wrapped and Steve has a few beers and loosens up and finds a very nice guy that takes him home and makes him even looser and laxer, scratching an itch that’s been growing for months. It’s casual and nice and he doesn’t even feel any type of way when he takes the train home on Sunday morning. It’s good.

(Unknown number)

_ >>Can I call you? _

The text comes in the week after, the number unfamiliar to Steve. His first instinct is that it’s the one night stand guy. Numbers had been exchanged at some point, at least he thinks so. Things got… a little hazy after a while.

Me

_ >>Sure? _

His phone rings only seconds later, the same unfamiliar number flashing on his screen. Steve furrows his brow. If they exchanged numbers, shouldn’t there be a name flashing instead of the number? Oh, god, did he forget to save it? Shit. What the fuck was the guy’s name?

“H-hello?” he answers, still wracking his mind for the very pretty guy’s name.

_“Hi, Steve.”_

Wait.

“Um-”

That’s not the guy. 

“James?”

They have to stop meeting like this. Steve rubs his forehead, feeling like a good, solid thunk might do a better job of recalibrating his mind. He is not prepared, he is not in any state of mind to talk to the King. Then again, is anyone ever prepared?

_“Yeah… Sorry, is it a good time? I know I asked, but I figured you maybe felt obliged, because, you know...”_

Steve huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, I… didn’t know it was you. Didn’t save your number last time, so…”

_“Really?”_ The King sounds amused. _“Is it bad that I feel like my ego should be taking a hit because a guy I called in a fit of panic didn’t take the opportunity to save my number?”_

“To be fair, that is probably a failure on my part, I had the chance and I squandered it. If the gossip rags knew, they’d be frothing at the mouths, damn vultures.”

Steve meanders around his little apartment, bare feet dragging against the cool flooring. It’s a… habit. He has never quite been able to decide if it’s a bad one or a good one. He usually wanders when he’s talking to someone on the phone, gets teased about it sometimes, too. Sometimes he’s caught himself doing it and stopped, but sooner or later he starts walking again. It’s nice. Good for the thought processes.

_“Perish the thought we should give them any more fodder for their publications.”_

“Using the royal ‘we’, Your Majesty?” Steve quips, entering his bedroom and frowning at his still unmade bed. It’s a mess, and he should have made it this morning. Something about the abandoned sheets, the emptiness they convey, it irks him.

_“Well, we are king,”_ James jokes before continuing: _“I really can’t convince you to call me James? It’s so strange to hear that title.”_

“Stranger than hearing the sovereign of the country ask someone they barely know to please call him by his first name? No offense, but I think I win this one.” Steve turns, leaves the messy bed, wanders to his kitchen.

There’s a sigh over the line, then: _“Fine, fine. I yield. Can you at least not call me ‘Your Majesty’? Or any of the other forms of address. I… want to feel normal. I want to be James. Hell, I want to be Bucky.”_

Steve’s sink looks like something exploded, with brushes and palettes mixed in with coffee mugs and plates. He needs to get better at keeping his shit in order. “Bucky? The hell kind of name is that?”

_“You can thank my sister. My middle name is Buchanan, when she was five she decided she didn’t want to call me James or Jamie or any other James-derived nickname, don’t ask me why because I have no idea, so she decided on Bucky of all things. It kind of stuck after that. It's always been a metric for me, I think. How normal and casual my life is at any given moment. The people who call me Bucky are the ones I'd most like to spend time with. They don't see me as, well, all of this.”_

Steve smiles, jamming his phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can start organizing his sink, separate the painting stuff from the everyday stuff. He will absolutely not call the King ‘Bucky’, that feels like even more of a breach of etiquette than James. 

_“So… I take your silence as a sign that any request for you to call me Bucky won’t be accepted?”_

“Astute observation. I will not.”

_“Why?”_ James asks. _“It’s only a name.”_

“Yeah, but… it’s you. You’re… you’re the King, and you said yourself, people who call you that are the people who are closest to you. I’m not. I’m just… I’m me, and I still feel like anytime I even think of you as James, I have to look around to make sure Romanoff doesn’t pop out of nowhere to whack me over the head with the etiquette rules.”

_“Why, mr Rogers, that almost sounds as if you have been thinking of me.”_

Steve’s cheeks heat up, and he is at once grateful that the king can’t see him. He hasn’t been thinking of the King. Not a lot. Barely spared the man a thought. Maybe just once in a while. When he takes out the copy of the issue with the feature, but just to admire his own work. He can do that, he’s allowed to be proud of a job well done. Granted, he had a very good canvas to work with. James is a handsome man. That’s just a statement of fact, an impartial observation, if you will. Anyone would say the same.

“I think it sounds more like I’ve been walking around side-eyeing every shrub and tree in Brooklyn, afraid that the King’s personal secretary will pop out and whack me over the head for breach of etiquette protocol,” he manages, willing away the heat in his cheeks and relegating the many, many memories of the photoshoot that are suddenly clamoring for his attention into the back of his mind.

The king makes a sound between a wince and a laugh, _“I wish I could say that was an impossibility, but that woman is formidable. She does have some kind of sixth sense about things, and I haven’t really felt brave enough to ask her about it.”_

“Yeah?” Feeling satisfied with his division of painting supplies to the left and plates and mugs and everything else to the right, he wanders on. “Seems to me like a sound choice for continuing to breathe.”

_“And much as I whine, I do like living and breathing. So in the interest of me continuing to do so, I’m not going to pry about how she knows things.”_

The line falls silent. Steve’s not entirely sure if he should say something, what he should say. Conversation flowed so easily until suddenly it didn’t. James is a strange combination of easy and absolutely terrifying to talk to, making Steve wonder how things might have gone if James was just… James. Bucky. Not His Royal Highness. Not King. If they were both… normal.

_“Can I ask you something?”_

The man could order him to do anything he wanted, and he still asks. Steve can’t help but smile.

“Sure.”

_“Look, I know I have no right to put this on you, to ask you to do this, but I… really need a friend. Someone outside all of this. I’ve… arranged some leave for myself. As much as I can arrange it in my position, anyway. And I was wondering… if maybe you could- if you wanted to-”_

There’s a huff of frustration, and Steve can almost imagine the facepalm that must surely be happening on the other end of the line. He falls down onto his couch, swinging his legs up on the coffee table. Sitting down feels like a good choice in light of where this conversation looks like it might be going.

_“I can’t ask you to meet, that’s… I just... Fuck. I need something to do. Something that isn’t duties and shaking hands and meeting people. And I seem to remember a certain Brooklyn punk saying there are some pretty good places in his neck of the woods that I should know about.”_

Steve’s not sure why he’s not breathing. One second he is and the next it seems his lungs are about to burn from lack of oxygen. He’d mostly said that as a tease. Sure, there are a lot of good places in Brooklyn that more people should know about, but he didn’t think the King would actually take it as an honest to god challenge.

“You… want me to tell you where to go for food? In Brooklyn?”

James lets out an exhale, relief seeping through it, _“Yes, please.”_

“I mean, I’m sure you could have someone look up good places around here-” Why the hell is he backpedalling?

_“I could. But they’d be vetted. Security arrangements, deals and god knows what else. I don’t want that. I’m not overly fond of the idea of eating in.”_

“I’m sure those places deliver.” If he keeps backpedalling, he’s going to be out of the tri-state area soon. Steve slaps his hand over his face, dragging it down and pulling a face as he does. “No need to eat in.”

There’s a second’s silence before James answers, and it’s just enough for Steve to realize he’s fucked up:

_“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, it’s been a long couple of days, I shouldn’t have-”_

“No, no, wait.” God fucking damn it. “It’s not that I don’t want to- Shit, hold on.” Steve sets down his feet again, needing the steady, solid floor to feel a little grounded. Okay. Breathe. Think. Then speak. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dismiss you. I’m just… a little surprised you’re asking me, I suppose.”

_“Because you talk to me like I’m Bucky.”_ There’s a little chuckle, then: _“Most of the time. You talk to me like I’m Bucky without calling me Bucky. You… You answered the phone and talked to me when I called you out of the blue, you got me a sandwich from Katz’s and… My experience of this city has been vetted. I’ve seen what has been presented to me. Pretty exteriors and coordinated shows. When I went to college, I finally had a bit of freedom. It’s how I found Katz’s. It was the best time of my life, and now that I’m- When you said there were places in Brooklyn I should know about, I was ready to follow you out the door, get on a train and find those places. I just want a little bit of that time back.”_ James falls quiet, listening, then sighing: _“Sorry. That was a lot, I didn’t mean-”_

“Hamilton’s.”

_“I beg your pardon?”_

Steve smiles, “Hamilton’s. Great place between the Green-Wood cemetery and Prospect Park. I’m not saying you have to try everything on their brunch menu, but you have to try everything on their brunch.”

_“Okay. Hamilton’s, huh?”_

There’s a smile in his voice, and something about it makes butterflies flutter in the pit of Steve’s stomach. 

“Yeah. Hamilton’s. I’ll… I could text you a link to their menu.”

_“That would be really kind.”_

“Okay. I’ll… do that.”

_“Maybe save my number this time?”_

Steve snorts, shaking his head, “Just for that I won’t, you jerk.”

_“Hey, I could probably have you jailed for treason or something for that,”_ James retorts, laying on the fake sternness thick.

“Probably.” He bites his lip. What the hell. Go for it. “But you won’t,” he adds.

_“Oh, no? And why is that, mr. Rogers?”_

“‘Cause I know where the good places in Brooklyn are.”

He does save the King’s number once they hang up. Taps in ‘James’ under contact name, because anything else would just make him paranoid that someone could get hold of his phone, unlock his ridiculously elaborate screenlock pattern and go into his contacts. It won’t do to have the King listed under ‘HRH James Buchanan Barnes’. James is good. Neutral and non-descript. He could be any James. A friend from high school, a gallery owner, a booty call. Anyone but the actual King of the country.

He texts James the link to Hamliton’s menu, hesitates and then texts a couple of items he likes. Just in case. It’s always good to have recommendations. When his phone beeps ten minutes later, Steve all but jumps five feet into the air, scrambling for his phone, screwing up the lock pattern twice before he tells himself to fucking _chill out_. It’s Sam, asking if he’s up for a drink and a burger, “and not necessarily in that order.” Steve glances at his easel, another half-finished painting on it that he really should work on. He rarely works in abstract, preferring the realism of people and places, but this piece refused to be either. Something about it has been nagging at him for a good week, if not more, and he’ll sit and stare at it, weighing every brush stroke before even setting the brush against the canvas. He keeps thinking if he just concentrates, relaxes enough, it’ll come to him, and he’ll finish it. Then again, it could also turn into something that will never finish, or he’ll ruin it by not knowing when to stop.

Me

_ >>Sure. Where n when? _

Fuck it. Burgers and drinks it is. Preferably in that order.

* * *

James

_ >>I have seen the face of god in Hamilton’s Benedict _

_ >>I have also eaten the face of god _

_ >>I’m not even going to apologize _

Me

_ >>Told you, Brooklyn has awesome places _

_James_

_ >>It has at least one awesome place, I’ll give you that _

Me

_ >>Them’s fighting words, you know _

_James_

_ >>Prove me wrong, Rogers _

* * *

James

_ >>Okay, that Brazilian place was not bad _

Me

_ >>Have I proved you wrong? _

_ >>I mean, I am two for two _

_ >>Just sayin _

James

_ >>Or you’re lucky _

_ >>Just saying _

Me

_ >>Jerk _

James

_ >>Punk _

* * *

Me

_ >>I don’t know if you’re still on leave, I read somewhere you had to go to D.C _

_ >>If you are there, I won’t text you another food tip unless you show me proof that you went to &pizza _

_ >>(you know, if you could manage it) _

* * *

James

_ >>I am SO sorry, I thought I’d sent this! _

_ >>img4503 _

_ >>There’s your proof _

_ >>Not bad, but I’ll still take a NYC slice any day of the week _

_ >>Which I will be. Back in the city again. What’s good? _

Me

_ >>I’m not saying they’re as good as Katz’s _

_ >>But Court St Grocers _

_ >> Get the yam & cheese _

_ >>Or the delight _

_ >>Or both _

James

_ >>That’s enough sandwiches for both of us _

Me

_ >>I mean _

James

_ >>I would, but duty calls so delivery it is. Rain check? _

* * *

James

_ >>God, today _

_ >>Please tell me you got something _

_ >>My kingdom for a food tip _

Me

_ >>Jesus, Hamlet, that bad? _

_ >>Not sure if you’re craving anything in particular, but Ox Tavern has pretty good burgers _

_ >>No, scratch that, they have excellent burgers _

_ >>Fuck, now I want burgers _

James

_ >>Want me to pick one up for you? _

_ >>I mean, you got me a sandwich from Katz’s, and I distinctly remember a rain check. I’d just be repaying the favour _

Steve stares at the last message from James. That’s. New. Unexpected. Nice? He can’t decide on a word, can’t wrap his head around the offer. They’ve been texting back and forth for just about two months. The King’s leave, as it had been, is long since over, but the texts have continued. Granted, it’s all been recommendations from Steve, but still. _Still._ It’s been nice and civil and Steve has mostly been able to sort of pretend he’s not been texting the king of the country. He is… not king in the texts. He is someone else. 

Blinking, Steve lets his fingers hover over the keyboard on his phone screen. He should decline. Jesus, he has so many reasons to decline and really only one reason to accept. Okay, maybe two.

Me

_ >>You really don’t have to. There’s always delivery. Or I could be an actual social human being and go out to eat _

The King’s answer lingers, the dots blinking and disappearing and blinking again. Steve brings up Ox Tavern’s website. He really, really wants a burger now. And he needs to get out of the apartment. It’s summer goddamnit, he should be outside more than anything.

James

_ >>We can be social together? Please, I really feel like I should repay you for that Katz’s run _

Me

_ >>You really, really don’t have to _

This time, the reply is a lot quicker.

James

_ >>I really, really want to _

_ >>Pick a damn burger, Steven _

So Steve picks a burger. Steve picks a burger, gives his address and immediately flies into a freakout and starts cleaning his apartment. Throws open a window to let in fresh air, hurls everything that should absolutely not be seen by anyone at any point in time, least of all the King, into his bedroom and shuts the door with a loud bang. The bathroom is its own little anxiety-filled adventure. He does the dishes, frantically organizing his painting supplies that are strewn around the livingroom and kitchen. 

Jesus fuck, what has he done?

He’s not sure how much time has elapsed when his phone pings again, James saying he’s outside and should he buzz in? _Fuck._ Dear gods of mercy, please let no one be on their way in and out. Steve buzzes the King inside, tells him which floor and then goes to open his door. The quicker he can get the King inside, the better.

“Hi.”

The King’s voice echoes in the stairwell, and Steve almost feels knocked sideways because the man looks so… normal. Gone is the sharp suit, the styled hair. The King in front of him is so blessedly, gorgeously normal. Distressed jeans, sneakers, a shirt that hugs him in a way that makes the urge to climb him like a tree swell sharp and sudden in Steve. There’s a ball cap perched on his head, a pair of wayfarer sunglasses covering his eyes.

He makes Steve wish more than anything that things were different, that there was an alternate reality where this James was not king, along with a rapidly amassing amount of other scenarios that he would do well not to dwell on because he does not want to drool in front of the guy.

“H-hi. Sorry. Hi. Um, come in?”

James smiles at him, a brittle little thing, pressing past Steve and for the first time in years, Steve feels like he should be reaching for the inhaler he never used to leave home without. He peers down the stairs, around the landing before closing the door behind him.

“Should I unload in the kitchen, or?”

God, but this is bizarre. Steve blinks, focuses. James is holding up the takeout bag, looking towards the kitchen.

“No! No, I mean, I mostly eat in the living room. Bad habit, I know. It’s just… I live alone, so not like I have anyone to sit down with. I’ll get us something to drink, okay? Just… Living room’s ahead. Pretty impossible to miss.”

James gives him a crooked grin, nods. “I’ll try to find my way.”

Steve’s grateful for the slight break in the kitchen. He breathes deeply, feels his galloping pulse, the lightheadedness that’s starting to creep in, the heat rising in his cheeks. This will be fine. He can handle this. Two bottles of water, he can’t bring himself to offer shitty beer from the bodega around the corner to the King. 

“You can do this,” he mutters under his breath, inhales through his nose and walks out to the living room.

It’s not horrible.

A little awkward, sure.

Conversation limps its way through the two of them eating their burgers; platitudes about how things have been, how they are, with silences stretching between one answer and the next question.

“Is that yours?”

Steve looks up, and James has his eyes set on the corner of the living room where he shoved his easel and his boxes of paints, brushes and assorted accessories during his cleaning frenzy. The canvas on it is a new painting, barely past the initial preparation. His other paintings are scattered; finished ones shoved in the bedroom, the ones in various stages hidden underneath a swath of cloth in the other corner.

“Yeah. Did a fine arts degree in college, been painting and sketching for most of my life. I prefer it to photography, but right now, photography is paying the bills. That one’s pretty new. I’ve got an idea for it, I just… need to sit down and get it onto the canvas.”

James nods. “D’you have any I could see? Like, finished ones?”

It’s a strange sensation. His goal for the better part of two years has been to get to a point where he has a solid enough portfolio that he could get an exhibition going at a gallery, show his art to the world. And yet, when asked by one person, or rather by _this_ person, to show his work, he feels shy in the face of the request. He’s about to make an excuse why he absolutely can’t show any other painting, but then James cocks his head, fixes him with puppy dog eyes and draws out an exaggerated please, and Steve is not sure how it happens, but he pulls out a painting, a half finished one. 

Then another. 

Then another.

“That’s… Steve.” James is standing in front of one of his finished pieces, arms crossed over his chest. He sounds so reverent, looks it too, eyes tracking over the strokes of colour. “You said you painted, but shit… You really paint, huh?”

“When I’m not working, yeah. I’m…” He bites his lip. Fuck. No, he can do this. “I’m actually trying to put together a portfolio. Been reaching out to a coupla galleries.”

“About doing an exhibition?”

Steve shrugs, “Yeah. Nothing’s panned out yet, but I’m still waiting to hear back from a handful.”

“That’s- They should be tripping over each other trying to get you. You’re really talented. This is… This is incredible.”

Something warm blooms in his chest, and it’s all Steve can do to will down the blush that’s threatening to tint his cheeks red. It’s a goddamn miracle he doesn’t scrape his foot.

“You think so?”

That, he can’t hold back, and it’s so god damn cliché, but he looks at James, wishing, hoping that the answer-

“Yeah, Steve.”

Silence falls again, and it is still awkward, but something else hangs between them, too, something that feels too much like flirting, like treading the waters. Steve’s fingertips twitch. If they were different, if things were different… James’ phone pings, breaking the moment, scattering the idea to the wind.

“Sorry. I’ve-” James gestures towards the window, to the street below it. “I need to go.”

Steve scrambles backwards, nodding and tripping over his words. There’s another moment by the door, when neither know what to do. Steve tries to wave, something in James’ expression wavers for a split second before he steps forward, wraps Steve in a hug. It’s strange, he feels like he’s frozen solid, unable to do anything, and yet his arms move and wrap themselves around the King, gentle pressure and soothing circles with his thumb. James exhales against him, tension bleeding out of him and Steve feels warm right to the core of his soul.

“Sorry,” he mumbles against Steve’s shoulder before pulling away, pointedly looking down. “Sorry, I shouldn’t-”

Steve, heart feeling like it’s about to flutter out of his chest, shakes his head. “Don’t. It’s okay. Kinda felt like you needed it, y’know.”

James finally looks up, a quick glance to go with the sliver of a grin that flashes across his features, “More than you know. I can’t talk about it, but yeah. I did. Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He means it. Anytime. Anywhere. Steve already wants him back in his arms.

“Let’s… do this again sometime?” James asks, unlocking the door behind his back and putting on the cap and the sunglasses.

Steve furrows his brow. It’s as if the man has put on a mask. A breath, and there is a man who will smile like everything is fine, never break. A breath, and James - _hell, Bucky_ \- is replaced with the expression of a King ready to do what needs to be done.

“Y-yeah. I’m- Yeah. Anytime. Just… you know…”

“I’ll text you.”

And with that, the King disappears, footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Steve closes his door quietly, leaning up against it and letting out a shaky breath. This. James. He shouldn’t entertain this thought but-

There’s something there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> \- Loup is my go-to person for all things Brooklyn, and I can attest to the amazingness of Hamilton's food. Though I did not have their Eggs Benedict at the time. The Brazilian place is Beco Bar in north Williamsburg. Court Street Grocers are located in Cobble Hill and you can find Ox Tavern in Ditmas Park  
> \- Like Steve, I am in fact now very much in the mood for a burger


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are officially past halfway!
> 
> Banner and art by my incredible collaborator LemonadeHearts. Betaed by my lovely Beka, who also screamed with me. A lot.

They don’t talk about it, but it still finds its way into texts, into conversations that steadily steer away from lunch recommendations. Into meals shared apart. Into facetime calls late at night. Into brief visits, and hesitant goodbyes. One night he wakes up from a hazy dream about James, the details slipping quickly from his mind. His heart thunders in his chest, and for ten minutes he simply sits, staring at the blank wall of his bedroom. His hand finds his phone, bringing up their messages. He tries to find when things changed, a definitive moment, a point in time with before and after, but it is all a blur.

He sleeps fitfully the rest of the night, wakes up feeling like he’s been run over by a steamroller. Coffee burns his tongue and an untimely red light at a crosswalk a block from his station makes him late to his train and ultimately late for work. He drops his glasses during a shoot and steps on them by accident, breaking one of the temples. Sam has an interview and can’t go to lunch, and Steve only finds that out when he’s been waiting for 30 minutes at his desk while his stomach rumbles louder and louder. The noodle place down the street is a savior. Until he spills broth all over his shirt, staining it an unsightly shade of orange and it takes every ounce of self control for Steve not to break down into a storm of curses that would shrivel the ears of every patron in the restaurant and make his mother’s ghost manifest to berate him.

The whole day goes on like that. Mishaps and misunderstandings and minutes that stretch into hours until he is positive the workday has gone on for a full week before he’s finally out the door with a raging headache. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a stormcloud tracking above his head, but no, New York is showing itself from its best side with a clear blue sky and sweltering sunlight that isn’t 100 % to blame for the way he glares all the way home. He needs to go to the gym. He needs to fucking punch something. He needs to kick this day where it fucking hurts. He needs to-

“James?”

He needs to stop and blink and pinch himself to make sure he is not imagining the King standing outside the door to his building, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, scraping his foot like a nervous schoolboy.

“Sorry, I didn’t- I can leave if this is a bad time.” He sounds about as miserable as Steve feels.

“No, no, I’m… just surprised. Were we..?” Steve wracks his memory. Had they agreed on something?

“No, I’m just…” The King looks down the street, hunching his shoulders. “Can we go inside?”

All of Steve’s anger and misery bleeds away, shedding with every step up the stairs. By the time they’re inside his apartment, he is just tired. He slouches into the kitchen, pulls two beers out of the fridge and hands one to James. Their fingers brush and the dream flashes through Steve’s mind again. A fleeting touch that could bring him to his knees. He makes a beeline for the couch, pulls the ruined glasses from his back pocket to set them on the coffee table and then sits down before he can make an ass of himself.

“I should have called,” James mumbles, scraping with his thumb against the label of the bottle. “Showing up like this, it’s- It’s not okay. ‘S not polite.”

“It’s fine.” Steve takes a swig of the beer. It’s not punching the day in the face, but it beats sitting alone to stew over how much he’s hated today. “You have the honour of being the high point of my day.”

“Bad day?”

“The worst. You?”

James is quiet for a while, circling the bottle in his hands, still worrying at the label, peeling it off in little damp slivers, brows knit together. There is tension rolling off of him, waves of distress that make Steve set down his bottle to really look at him. The muscles in his jaw tick, and he is so quiet. This is more than worry, Steve realizes. He knows this, knows that if he sets a hand on James’ shoulder, it’ll be stiff as a board and he’ll flinch away from the touch, knows that if he prods now, he’ll be in for a lot of shouting and no answers.

“The hell happened to your glasses?” James finally asks, reaching for them.

So. Not talking. Steve knows that, too.

“Did you get in a fight?”

“With the universe, possibly,” Steve replies, shaking his head. “I stepped on them. During a photoshoot. Dropped out of my shirt pocket, and I was so into what was happening that I didn’t realize what had happened until I heard the crack of them breaking.”

James nods, sets the glasses back on the table, closer to Steve. “Fighting the universe is futile.”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve scooches a little closer, ostensibly to take the glasses. “The universe is a bitch that always wins. But sometimes, you just have to fight it, y’know. Not take every punch it throws at you.”

“Sounds like someone who’s gotten into a shit ton of fights.” It’s more of a mumble, the kind that comes with a lump in your throat that you want to will away.

“Lost most of them,” Steve says, with a fond smile. Lord, he had been a handful as a kid. “Not entirely sure what that says about me.”

“That you’re a dumbass with something to prove?” James quips, and Steve thinks he tries to make it sound like a tease, but it comes out bitter, hard and forced through his teeth.

“I think…” He looks at the glasses, turns them over in his hands. The temple had broken off clean at least. He could glue it if he was really desperate, but he could also go down to the dollar store and buy a new pair. He doesn’t really need them a lot. “I think sometimes it would have done me good to prove myself a little less. Certainly would have spared my family a lot of grief. You do what you think is best in the moment, but hindsight is always 20/20.”

James finally looks at him, eyes rimmed red and his lips set in a thin line, “So why do I feel like I’m stumbling blind and won’t ever know? I’m not ready, I’m not- I don’t know what to do, I don’t know if what I’m doing is right. I didn’t want this.”

His voice cracks, and he snaps his mouth shut again, swallowing around the hurt and blinking rapidly to force away the tears that threaten to spill. His entire being radiates “do not touch”, but his body still angles towards Steve, seeking him out. Steve sits still, hands folded in his lap, waiting, accepting.

“It’s a burden I couldn’t imagine,” he starts, weighing each word. “But… remember when we talked during the shoot? You said you were afraid and I asked what you’d tell people if you had the chance? Remember what you told me?”

Nod.

“Has that changed?”

“No, but-” Tears run down James’ cheeks when he looks at Steve again, misery and dejection marring him. “What if that isn’t enough?”

“You’re still human. You’re still a person and you’re worthy of the grace of making up for mistakes and learning. And I think…” Steve wets his lips, holding the King’s gaze with a small smile, “I think if you show that… then the people will give you the chance. You’re king, Bucky. There’s no denying that. But give yourself the chance, show that you will be their- _our_ King.”

The one big clock Steve has in his apartment is a silent one, no audible ticking to mark time, but now he feels every second like a heartbeat. It’s a moment, two-three breaths and blue holding blue that drag out and span an eternity, and when it finally breaks it’s in a flash. Steve sees it happen in slow motion, feels it happen like the world has speeded up. James closes the distance between them, cups his chin and presses soft lips against his, and Steve knows he should pull away, should freak out, but he is pulled back into himself, handing over control to his heart and his heart is fluttering in his chest, turning his insides to light. There have been kisses. End of dates-kisses, messy kisses on the way to the bedroom. There have been no kisses, people he didn’t feel like getting that close and personal with. It’s been a while since he has kissed in a way that makes him feel light like kissing James does.

James sighs against him, melts into him a little when Steve shows no signs of pulling away, then does so himself, biting at his full lower lip.

“I’m-” His cheeks wash with pink, and he tries to both look at Steve and not look at Steve. “Should I..? Should I have… done that?”

Steve tilts his head, “Done what?”

James pierces him with a glare that makes it very hard for Steve not to laugh. “I kissed you!”

“You did.”

“So?” James sits back a little, eyebrows knit together, gaze flickering across Steve’s face.

“If you’re waiting for me to turn into a prince, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for a long time.”

James swears under his breath, “Jesus Christ… Steve, I kissed you. I’m- God fucking damn it… Was that okay? Was it okay that I kissed you?”

The prudent answer would be to say yes, but maybe one kiss is enough, that this is complicated, scratch that, this is simple, and he is okay. No harm, no foul. But Steve can’t find it, can’t see a King sitting in front of him on his shitty couch in his comparably tiny apartment. He sees a handsome guy wringing his hands and looking like his thoughts are already racing down Worst Case Scenario Highway, and god help him, Steve _likes_ him. Steve likes him, and he leans forward to kiss him again, no other answer even close to communicating the same meaning. A kiss for a kiss.

The world melts away, tears itself into pieces in the small, needy sound that trips from him, a sound Steve swears he can feel like a touch. He pushes forward, James pushes back, not hurried, but tentative and longing. He wants to give James everything, wants him to have everything, takes whatever he is given, sighs and helps when James moves and straddles his lap. 

“Steve…”

His name comes out on a breath, soft like silk and reverent. They’ve only barely broken the kiss, sharing breaths, and Steve can find no other focus than the deepened blue of James’ eyes. Something in him tells him he should be careful, that he’s treading into unknown waters. Steve realizes he doesn’t care, he could drown and he’d have no regrets.

“Steve.” James calls his attention again, voice just as low and husky as before. “Please, I need- Please, tell me it’s okay. Or if it’s not. I can’t- I need to know this is okay. What you want.”

Steve fumbles a hand up James’ body to cup his cheek, kisses the corners of his mouth. “Is it what you want?”

“Not important-”

“Just as important,” Steve insists, leaning back to put some space between them, to better see him, better gauge him.

James’ shoulders slump, and it’s only by the grace of Steve’s hand cupping his cheeks that he doesn’t hang his head. It doesn’t stop him from looking away, from worrying his lower lip in a way that makes something akin to envy bloom in Steve. He wants to be the one teasing it to an even pinker and fuller state.

“You’re you here,” Steve tells him, seeking out his gaze. “You don’t have to put on a show for me. You don’t have to carry your title in here. You can leave it at the door. Set it down for me. Be James. Be… be Bucky. Does he want this?”

James’ lips move, forming unheard words, and Steve isn’t sure if James is talking to him or to himself. No matter. He’ll wait. There is nothing marking the time, they can imagine themselves suspended in time, suspended from the world.

“Want it,” James finally mumbles, meeting Steve’s eyes. “All of me.”

Steve smiles, stretches to find James’ lips again and wraps his arms around him, another barrier from the world. “Me, too. I want it. You.”

The world blurs a little after that. Steve feels drunk with James, his presence and his affections. They leave the couch at some point, only to kiss their way to the kitchen, giggling when Steve realizes he has absolutely nothing to eat. He vividly remembers chills tripping down his spine when James looks at him under full lashes, asking _“What’s good?”_ It takes longer than ever before to order takeout, and at some point while Steve pays and accepts the food, James makes a call in hushed tones, and Steve means to ask what it’s about, but arms wrapping around his waist and lips pressing against his pulsepoint completely derail the entire conversation. Their food goes cold.

“Hi.”

The world is washed in the pale light of morning when Steve is dragged from sleep, finding his sheets bunched down around his waist and Bucky lying next to him, arm tucked under his head and gaze soft from sleep. 

“Hey, yourself.” 

Steve’s own voice is just as gravelly, body still heavy with sleep and he wants nothing more than to pull his covers over the both of them and make Bucky stay for a bit longer. The man looks so peaceful, so utterly at ease with his hair mussed, lips pulled into a lazy smile and eyes regarding him with a quiet curiosity. It’s strange. Steve realizes he’s not sure what to do. It’s been… a while since he’s had anyone over like this. His adventures have always ended at the other person’s place, or in far seedier locations, and he has had no trouble doing the walk of shame the next morning. This is a hell of a lot different. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky asks, shifting a bit closer, and Steve’s stomach flutters. He smells so warm and soft.

“Wh’makes you think I’m thinkin’?” he slurs out, and it’s only partially because he still feels half asleep.

Bucky reaches out, gentle and slow in his movements, touches between Steve’s eyes and presses at the little divot that has formed there until Steve can feel himself relax.

“There.” Bucky looks at him for a moment, hesitating and wetting his lips before speaking again, hushed like the words might have the power to make the room tumble down around them: “Are you… okay?”

_What a question._

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Steve asks, frowning and repositioning himself to rest on his elbow.

Bucky sighs, gaze flicking down, steeling himself with a breath, “Because I’m me? Because I’m-”

Steve leans forward in a flash, kisses the words to death before Bucky can even utter them, kisses until he can feel Bucky respond and melt and relax against him. He wraps an arm around him, splays his fingers as wide as he can against Bucky’s warm back, pulls him in so close they’re touching from head to toe.

“Never. Never, Bucky.”

Shared breaths. One. Two. Thr-

“You called me Bucky.”

“Well, ‘your majesty’ would have felt a little awkward,” Steve quips, and gets a punch to his bicep for it.

They laugh, kiss again, lie wrapped in cooling sheets and morning sun and give no thought to anything past this moment. Steve’s idly running his fingers through Bucky’s hair and he can feel sleep tugging at him again, but he knows Bucky is wide awake, and he doesn’t want to miss a second of him. Deep in his gut, there’s a sneaking fear bubbling. What if he falls asleep and wakes up alone? What if Bucky just leaves?

“Never thought I’d have this,” Bucky suddenly mumbles against his chest.

“A morning sleeping in..?”

“That, too. God, this is nice. But I was… I mean you. This. Us.”

That’s… Steve feels wide awake, his fear replaced by another kind of apprehension. Bucky feels it, of course he does, and the way he slowly turns to look at Steve does not fool him. Bucky is scared.

“My family knows I'm gay,” he starts, voice measured, every word weighed and carefully chosen. “Nat, too, some of my closest staff.” Steve’s face must be showing something because Bucky rolls his eyes and adds, “My driver.”

“Whe- How l-” Steve bites down on his tongue. He has no right to ask those questions, and Bucky is under no obligation to answer them.

“Sixteen. More or less. I think I knew before, but I told my family when I was sixteen. I was scared shitless.”

He gives a little chuckle, draws idle figures with his finger against Steve’s arm. Saying he can relate feels maybe a little presumptuous, Bucky’s situation was – _is_ – so vastly different. Even so, that moment, the seconds before speaking up about his sexuality, was the most scared Steve’s been in his life.

“How’d that go?” he asks softly, not missing how Bucky’s finger stops moving.

“Not… not great. My sister was okay. She didn’t care. My mother was… I don’t wanna say distraught, it sounds wrong. Seemed like it to me at the time, though. I think she was more worried than anything and didn’t know how to show it. My father… did not take it well.”

Steve furrows his brow, scoots back a little so he can see Bucky's face properly. His expression is blank, eyes following the movement of his fingers, mouth set in a neutral line. He is trying to be fine, Steve realizes.

"What happened?"

"Words," Bucky offers, short and with a voice Steve can tell is straining to stay even. He gives a sigh, pulls his hands to his chest, cupping them, right over his heart. "'S okay. Or, y'know…"

"Buck…"

Bucky snickers, "Really, Steve? A nickname of my nickname? It's not even that much shorter."

There it is again. Deflection. Misdirection. Steve's heart is burning for him, for the hurt the conversation with his father obviously caused. His own history of coming out isn't the smoothest, and there are definitely relatives he won't ever get Christmas cards from again, but _damn._

"Sorry that happened to you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Bucky's forehead.

Bucky shifts against him, hands still resting against his chest, protective and guarding.

"It is what it is. Can't change it, right? On the bright side, it's pretty much what got me to pursue my degree and my postgrad studies. We weren’t exactly on speaking terms for much of my final high school years. Going off to college was liberating, for both of us. There was a reason for my absence, and in my father’s eyes, I was at least doing something useful for the monarchy."

Bucky’s voice takes on a tone that sounds like he’s a record stuck on repeat. There is a harshness and curtness there that Steve does not want to think of how often Bucky had to hear it. He cups Bucky’s cheeks, runs his thumb along his cheekbones, traces the delicate skin down to his full lips, teases the corner of his mouth. There is something in this moment, in the breaths between them that feels tender and tenuous. Bucky has opened up and Steve is not sure how to tell him, how to show him that he treasures his trust. His lips part, ready for words of comfort, of encouragement to emerge, but instead he feels like his soul is opening up into a cavernous space that contains nothing of what he wishes he could express, but everything of an unknown something that he can feel with every fiber of his being. The words won’t come, no matter how Steve tries, and he simply ends up holding Bucky, hoping that even a fraction of the big, overwhelming _something_ inside him translates.

It’s later, when the world outside finally makes its presence known with cars honking and people shouting that Bucky heaves a sigh. Steve knows before Bucky even speaks. Even with their body heat, the sheets have cooled. Bucky rolls over on his stomach, cradling his chin in his hands and lets out another sigh.

“I should go. Secret Service is gonna hate me so, so much.”

“I could fight them?” Steve jokes, turning on his side, nudging Bucky jokingly.

Bucky turns to mock-glare at him, then in one fluid motion rolls to sit on the edge of the bed to rummage for his clothes, ”Don’t you dare.”

“I feel like I should be hurt by your blatant implication that I could not take your bodyguards in a throwdown. I have it on good authority that I am built.”

Bucky snorts, steps into his jeans and stands up to pull them on and Steve thinks his brain is short circuiting a little.

“-ve it on good authority that you lost most of your fights. And I also have it on good authority that my Secret Service guys have won most of theirs.”

Steve shakes his head, tosses the covers aside so he can sit on the edge of the bed, watch Bucky get dressed, find his phone and tap out a message that gets a ping in reply not five seconds later. He looks at the nimble fingers, follows a vein in his forearm up, up, up to Bucky’s shoulders, to the curve of his neck, the strands of hair that hangs in front of his face, the determined set of his mouth. The thing inside him stirs, undulates, blooms and aches to reach out and touch. Steve sighs, looks down at his hands, wringing slowly in his lap. The time for touching is over.

“Hey…”

Steve looks back up, finds Bucky smiling at him, soft and hopeful.

“I need to- They’re gonna be here soon, and I- Thank you. For yesterday. And this. I’m…” Bucky shakes his head, the smile turning into a little chuckle. “I’m… not used to this.”

“What’s ‘this’?” Steve asks, tilting his head, and god, he should not be hopeful, but it soars in him even so when Bucky looks at him, like he doesn’t want to be getting dressed to leave.

There is another ping from his phone. Giving a long exhale, Bucky checks the message, pressing his lips together before looking at Steve again.

“Come take the pictures.”

“The pic-? What pictures?”

“The portraits. Your ‘cover’. PR has nagged me about it for months. I want you to take them. For real. I want- I’d like you to take the portraits.”

Steve is fairly sure he is doing a credible impression of a goldfish, mouth agape and all. That’s- That was an offhand comment. A joke. He can’t be-

“Buck, if this is some kind of-”

Bucky interrupts him, crouches down and takes Steve’s hands in his. “It’s not. I mean, I can’t deny I want to see you again, but you’re incredibly talented. What you did for the feature, it’s- This needs to be done, and… “ He squeezes Steve’s hands, smiling up against him, blue eyes somehow both pleading and warm, “I’d want someone who knows me to take the pictures. Someone who, if needed, can talk me out of my head. Someone I trust.”

“I…”

“Please, Steve.”

It would be stupid to say no. Everything else aside, it’s another career maker. His name would rise above others in the business. The man who got the coveted task of doing the official portraits of the royal family, of the King. He should be salivating, tripping over himself to say yes.

“Okay. Okay, Bucky.”

What actually makes him accept is the man before him. A king in the world outside, but here crowned in messy locks and soft eyes, kneeling before him like Steve is the anointed one, cupping his hands like they are sacred. How could he ever say no? Bucky’s smile breaks into a grin that lights up his face, and he tugs at Steve’s hands to kiss his knuckles before all but jumping up. His phone pings again.

“I’d better go. Before they decide to kick down the door.”

Steve nods, quietly following Bucky to the door, feels like he is being turned inside out by that vast feeling inside of him when Bucky turns around to hug him one last time, telling him under his breath that he’ll be in touch before he disappears out his door and popping the bubble once and for all. He walks around his apartment like a ghost. Coffee. Shower. Netflix. Nothing sticks, nothing settles him.

Until he finally goes back into his bedroom to put on actual clothes. His bed; still unmade, sheets messy, bathed in dim light and streaked in the shadows of branches from a tree outside. It’s proof. It’s perfect. Steve gets one of his cameras, an older model he has kept for years and loves for the authenticity that comes with it. He touches nothing, simply takes a chair, positions it so his own shadow doesn’t cross the bed, leans over and snaps the shot.

He doesn’t need to look at the little screen to know he will need this picture printed, blown up, treasured. It’s his own personal reminder. Of Bucky. Of happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No fun facts as such this time. Just a lot of swooning. And me belting out "All of Me", because it popped into my head writing THAT line and now I can't unhear it. If you have the urge to scream, please feel free to scream at me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner art by my lovely collaborator LemonadeHeart. Betaed by the amazing Beka, who has made so many amazing points throuhout my writing this that I couldn't possibly thank her enough. Manhattan tip by my New York insider Loup.

Time moves strangely after. 

On the one hand, he doesn’t see Bucky again, at least not in person. Both of them get swept up in duties, and although they still text, Steve finds himself missing the other man, pining for something he has exactly zero idea what it is and what it could be, if anything. Part of him hopes there might be something, latches on to every silly emoji he gets, feels his heart grow warm and fuzzy during the very few phone calls they manage. There’s an ease in the way they talk, and Steve smiles everytime he looks at their chat line, at how calling the King ‘Bucky’ has become a given. 

There is an ease, but there is no forward motion. They talk and they tease and they give each other shit and Steve calls him jerk and Bucky calls him punk and the night in Steve’s apartment, the hours spent in bed, hang between them and Steve has no idea how to bring it up because yeah, he might be okay with calling the King Bucky, but Bucky is still the King and everything between them is sweet but also a potential minefield. 

Bucky’s request, on the other hand…

Steve has barely shuffled into the office and pulled up his editing software on Monday morning before his phone goes off and everyone in the office turns to stare at him. He gets it, mornings are sacred, and most of them are still waiting for their coffee to kick in and for the Matrix to completely boot up, and anyone with any sanity would not have their ring tone set to that volume. With burning cheeks, Steve hurries out of the bull pen and into a corridor to answer.

“Steve Rogers speaking.”

_ “Did I catch you at a bad time, mr Rogers?” _

Steve can practically see her, the almost-smile and a quirked eyebrow. Like an absolute moron, he looks around, as if someone could possibly have heard her. On the phone.

“Na- Miss Romanoff?”

_ “Miss me, Rogers?” _

Steve, in his defense and if ever prompted, will swear up and down that this happened at 6 am instead of 8.17 am and that he was definitely under-caffeinated. He flounders for words, and ends up sliding down to sit, feeling like he needs support on as many sides as possible for this conversation. Goddamn Romanoff. How many cups of coffee has she had to sound that fucking  _ chipper _ .

_ “Relax, I’m teasing. And stop calling me miss. Am I right to assume you know why I’m calling?” _

“I- Yeah?” As far as words go, Steve figures this is about as coherent as he could have aimed for.

_ “Good. We want to move forward as quickly as possible. The royal family schedule is a tad unforgiving right now, but we, and by we I mean them, would very much like for the portraits to be ready to unveil to the world on New Year’s Eve.” _

“That’s…” Insane? Optimistic? Steve can think of at least five other words to describe the plan, but what he finally manages to squeak out is: “That sounds good.”

If Romanoff notices just how shell shocked he is, she is not commenting on it, instead continuing,  _ “Good, now, we will sit down with the royal family later today, try to figure out the best possible time. I do hope you will be able to work around whatever time fits for them. On the other hand, I am sure I can square that away with your editor-in-chief…” _

That drags him out of the sludge his brain is trapped in. Steve goes still, the spinning world he is trapped in grinding to a screeching halt. “Maria?”

_ “Maria Hill, thank you. I’m usually good with names, but like I said, a lot going on. I’m guessing you would like the rights to print the pictures in the magazine, and I suppose we can be accommodating to an extent, but I’ll discuss that with her.” _

Steve has honestly not thought that far. He hasn’t thought anywhere past ten minutes ago, if he’s being honest. Nodding, he immediately cringes because what even. Romanoff can’t see him.

“Sure. Yeah, that- that sounds good.”

_ “Calm down, Rogers. You did a really good job last time,”  _ Romanoff tells him, and any other day he’d absolutely file that statement away to bask in it at a later date, but this… is just a little too much on a Monday morning.  _ “Would you like to set a date to come by and look at the location we have in mind already, or would you prefer to wait until we have a set date?” _

Because that is just… great. It’s great. He’s fine. How is it possible to feel like one’s brain is simultaneously firing on all and no synapses?

“I- Um, maybe later? There’s, um… I’ll be pretty swamped this week. Beginning of the week, at least. I- Maybe ask me again on… Wednesday?”

If he could do it quietly and discreetly, Steve would 100 % ram his head through the wall. Such language. Very eloquence. Wow.

_ “I’ll put it in my calendar. As soon as we have everything worked out, I’ll get a standard contract for you to sign, nothing you didn’t see last time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rush into a meeting. I’ll call you, okay?” _

“Yeah. Wednesday.”

There’s a scratching sound on the other end of the line, before Romanoff speaks up again,  _ “Perfect. And just so you know, Rogers… no sandwich required when dealing with me.” _

With that, she hangs up. Steve is left sitting on the floor, listening to the beeping tone and pressing his back harder against the wall. He feels hollow, as if trying to mentally catch up and pull every galloping thought back into his head so that he’ll be able to function like a normal human being again. 

It’s only when he feels just about ready to get up again that the final cog seemingly slips in place and he’s metaphorically knocked on his ass again.  _ No sandwich required when dealing with me. _

Nat knows.

That’s just…

_ Fuck. _

His hands shiver, unsteady as he brings up his and Bucky’s chat.

_ Me _

_ >>Nat called _

_ >> Does she know? _

He doesn’t expect Bucky to reply immediately, but that doesn’t stop him from checking his phone, his stomach churning a little every time he sees the message is still unread, lunging for it whenever his phone makes a sound. His nerves feel frazzled by the time lunch rolls around, and he has only gotten about 30 % done out of everything he had planned for today. He’s putting on his jacket when behind him, there’s a clacking of heels against the floor that makes him freeze. At the subdued “ahem”, Steve turns slowly, finding himself face to face with Maria Hill. There’s a pleasant smile on her face, but it borders on creepy, and Steve takes a step back.

“Rogers, a word, if you please?”

Fuck. Nat. Damn, but she works fast.

Steve nods mutely, setting his phone to silent and shrugging off his jacket, following Maria back to her office. He feels the intent stares of each and every one of his co-workers on the walk across the office floor.

“Let me preface this by saying I’m not mad,” Maria starts after she sinks down in her chair behind closed doors. “Okay? Not mad.”

“Okay..?” Steve is not sure why it comes out as a question. To be honest, he’s not even sure what to do, so he just stands by the door, hands clasped in front of him.

“All of that being said, what the fuck, Rogers? Why did the Directo- pardon me, the King’s personal secretary, call me to make sure you will be available whenever they schedule a photoshoot and to negotiate for our stake in said photoshoot?”

“I…” Steve can’t even look at her, casting his eyes down to look at the floor, at his own shoes that he should definitely think about maybe getting rid of.

“What the hell, Steve? How did this happen? Rogers.” Her sharp voice makes Steve reflexively look up. Hill is pointing to the other chair in the room. “Sit. Talk.”

Talk. Right. Because talking has always gotten him out of trouble. Steve can’t talk about this, can’t answer the question honestly.  _ Fuck fuck fuck. _ He takes a seat, slowly, folding his hands in his lap, still not able to look Hill in the eyes, especially since he’s gonna have to lie to her.

“He…”

“ _ He _ ?” It comes out as a whispered scream, but Hill’s outrage is still very clear.

“His secretary,” Steve quickly amends, and fucking hell, he can feel his pulse beating in his  _ eyes _ . “Romanoff. She contacted me. The, uh… The King had asked for me? For official portraits. Um, I guess they… they wanted to go more modern? Photographs instead of paintings. Or, I dunno, they might do paintings, too, but he said- I mean, Romanoff said-”

“So they called you?”

“Yeah? Yeah, I… I suppose they did. They were apparently very happy with how the feature turned out, so y’know…”

“Christ…”

Steve chances a glance, and Hill is resting her head in her hands, massaging her temples. It doesn’t give the most encouraging impression.

“Look, Rogers, you’re a freelancer,” she says, looking up at him, and Steve is not quick enough to look down and it feels like she is nailing him to the spot, “and you’re absolutely within your right to accept assignments outside of what you get here. Like I said, I’m not mad. I would just… have appreciated a little heads up before you went and accepted something that ended up having implications for us.”

It’s too much like being berated by a principal, and he wants to jump up and defend himself, rant about how he absolutely did not ask for this and that it came out of nowhere, specifically after he spent the night with the King and really, it was just an ill-timed joke and he never expected that it would come back to bite him in the ass, and don’t even get him started on Romanoff, because that woman scares the bejesus out of him and he does not need her or anyone else for that matter to know it.

That might be too much, though.

“I meant to bring it to you, I really did,” he says, only lying a little. “Romanoff caught me off guard, and I didn’t think she’d contact you as quickly as she did.”

Hill squints at him, leans back in her chair. “Don’t slack off. Whatever hours you might miss out on because of this, you make up for.”

“Yes-” He only just manages to hold back the  _ ma’am _ that is definitely on the tip of his tongue. “Yes. Of course.”

There’s that look again, like she’s scanning him to determine whether or not he is bullshitting her just to get out of the room. Steve isn’t, although his fight or flight response has flipped on a dime to where he would not be opposed to flinging himself out the window, nevermind they’re 40 floors up.

“Okay. Okay, we’re good here. Get out,” she tells him, and there is a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I all of a sudden have to reneg the pages for our New Year Special.”

Steve’s not even ten steps out of Hill’s office when Sam comes out of nowhere, hooks him about the waist and hauls him into a conference room. Stumbling with the momentum, he trips and falls against the neatly lined chairs around the table, making a ruckus that has Sam rolling his eyes at him while he closes the door to the room. Great.

“What was that about?”

“What was- Jesus, Sam, what the hell! You can’t just go snatching people like that!”

Sam ignores him, crossing his arms, “What did Hill want?”

“What do you think she wanted?” It’s a shit tactic, but Steve is not in a frame of mind to concoct any kind of convincing lie, least of all in a crunch.

“You tell me. Last time you got pulled into her office, we were handed the feature. What’s up?”

Fuck. Sam is looking at him like he’s about to make Steve fess up to every dirty secret he has, and Jesus, no wonder Sam is so good at his job. _ Fuck, think _ . Steve shrugs and runs a hand through his hair and- wait, is that too much? Does that look suspicious? Shit. Okay. Serious. He needs to stay as close to the truth as possible.

“Fine. I might need a day or two off this month, and I wanted to clear it with Hill before I put in the request. She’s riding everyone about wrapping up the last issues of the year without a hitch, and I’ve got that big shoot for next month’s spread.”

Tick. Tock. Sam huffs, and Steve’s heart rate jumps again when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

“Everything okay?”

“What, why-?” Why wouldn’t things be okay? Everything is great. Really great. Right. White lie. “Yeah, it’s just, y’know.” He shrugs again.

God, he is an awful,  _ horrible _ liar. 

Sam doesn’t stop looking at him like he is trying to stare into Steve’s soul for an uncomfortable length of time, but when he finally shrugs and suggests lunch, Steve feels like he’s ready to collapse. They go to a sandwich place down the block, and though it’s no Katz’s, it’s not half bad. Things are normal. Sam is teasing him about going out, finding Steve someone to “end his dry spell with.”

“Nah, man, I’m good.”

“Dude,” Sam says around a large bite, “you’ve not been out with anyone since… what, January-”

“July, but thanks for that,” Steve interjects, gesturing with his hand, and accidentally showering the table with shredded lettuce.

“-and that is still not acceptable. Steve, you’re a young man in your prime, living in the greatest city in the world. C’mon, just once? Paint the town, take the train of shame, lemme help you out.”

Steve’s phone buzzes, and he can’t help the smile when he opens the text waiting for him

_ Bucky _

_ >>I’m so sorry. I think she does. It’s her business knowing things, and if it helps at all, I didn’t say it outright, but you’ve met her. Call you later? _

_ Me _

_ >>Yeah, I have, and she terrified me. Text you when I’m home, ok? _

“Steve? Steeeeeve?”

“Hmm?” He looks up, locking his phone and putting it back in his pocket.

“Whaddaya say? You, me, night on the town, getting lucky?” Sam waggles his eyebrows.

Steve has no idea what this thing is that’s between him and Bucky, if it’s a thing at all, if it can become anything at all. But imagining a night out, talking up someone, flirting with someone, someone who isn’t Bucky… Maybe it’s that hope he told himself months ago already to not hang onto, but it’s keeping him from seeing the appeal in Sam’s suggestion. 

“I’m good,” he says, picking at a piece of lettuce on the table. “Maybe another time?”

“I’ll hold you to that, Rogers.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Sam ends up taking it like some sort of personal challenge. At first, Steve doesn't notice, he's too embroiled in his projects, in waiting for Romanoff to tell him when he'll be needed, in taking what small interactions he can get with Bucky. He never asks what the King is up to, not sure if he even wants to know, but every call and every text puts a smile on his face.

“I've got a cousin coming into town next week,” Sam says one day out of the blue two weeks later, another lunch break shared with noodles and broth that Steve by some miracle hasn’t dribbled all over his white tee.

Steve only hums in reply, scrolling through the web pages of another art gallery that he's trying to get in contact with. He's updated his portfolio a bit since he first started getting in touch with galleries about a potential exhibit, and he really hopes this new direction will finally land him something because it is getting depressing to read and hear the same words of rejection time and time again.

“-be you wanna tag along? Steve?”

“Hmm?”

Sam is looking at him, expectant and almost giddy with a toothy grin to match. He’s about to ask Sam to repeat himself, a sinking feeling in his stomach that whatever he heard the end of started with something he would rather not hear, when his phone rings, a number that is now familiar because he has been staring at the pristine calling card he got months ago for an embarrassing amount of nights.

“Sorry, I need to take this, it’s-” His ringtone is loud and obnoxious, and he scrambles to his feet, pulling a few bills from his wallet and placing them on the table, “We’ll talk later, okay?”

Sam sits back, hands outstretched and looking like he wants to yell at him, but Steve is already moving, hightailing it out of the restaurant and into the busy street. The ringtone starts over. Jesus, but he needs to change that thing.

“Rogers.”

_ “Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you were ghosting me.” _

Steve presses the tips of two fingers between his eyebrows, working at the tension there. “Sorry, ms Romanoff, I was- I had to move. Caught me during lunch.”

_ “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just call me miss,”  _ Romanoff tells him and Steve can hear the smile in her voice.  _ “Anyway, I am just calling you to inform you we have scheduled the photoshoot for Friday.” _

Steve is halfway across a street, coming to a halt in the middle so abruptly that a lady walks right into him and presumably curses at him in a language he’s never heard before. 

“Friday?” His feet move again, jogging to make it across before the lights shift. “Friday like… like this Friday?”

He’s not even sure why he asks, because Romanoff chuckles at him.

_ “The one and only. Reserve the entire day, I will square it away with Hill.” _

“Oh, okay. Great. That’s- That’s great.” It’s absolutely not great, but he does not get a choice here, as seems to be usual protocol.

_ “Then it’s settled. When do you get off today?” _ Romanoff asks him, and Steve hears the tapping of fingers against a keyboard.

“When do I..? I’m- Like, 5 pm, I think? Why?”

_ “I assume you want to see the venue. We can discuss more here. I’ll send a car to pick you up at 5.15 pm outside InSight’s offices.” _

Steve wants to protest, but it comes out as stuttering okay and then Romanoff is off again, talking both at him and above him, and he remembers next to nothing of it the second she says goodbye and the call ends. He brings up Bucky’s messages, fingers already tapping out a message when he catches himself. This is not something he can fix, certainly not something he can ask Bucky to fix. Hell, it’s not even anything to fix. It’s a job, a fucking assignment of a lifetime. He was requested for this. Personally. He’ll manage. It’ll be fine. He erases the message, hurries back to the office.

He knows Romanoff has already been in touch with Hill when he gets there, because she’s out in the main office, talking to one of the editors, and she gives him a look when she spots him, somewhere between approval and plain annoyance, and there’s an email from her to go with that look, greenlighting his day off on Friday.

It’s a haze from there. Focused, but at the same time, the day floats by. A shoot at a studio downtown, editing, consulting with editors, and somewhere in there a presence of mind to pack one of his cameras to bring with him at the end of the day.

This time, he spots the car as it weaves through traffic, another sleek, black town car with no insignias, nothing to distinguish it except a sinking feeling in Steve’s gut that he can’t understand. There are no questions, no smalltalk on the way, he flashes his ID when they stop at the gate, adding that he has an appointment with ms. Natasha Romanoff. It’s professional, succinct. The lady herself meets him this time, a different entrance than when Steve was last here, she takes him through different corridors, and his heart beats a staccato rhythm along with the echoes of Romanoff’s heels against the polished floors.

The shoot, she explains, will be two-fold, just like the one from months ago. Modern meeting tradition with family shots and a few individual shots that will be a little more relaxed in one of the parlours, then moving on to the throne room for shots of the King in full regalia. Romanoff talks and Steve nods, and they visit the rooms so he can familiarize himself, take some test shots and plan his set up. It’s different, he thinks. The parlour looks a little like the one he and Bucky met in, but it’s still void of life, void of ill-planned jokes and fears of getting sandwich drippings everywhere, void of warmth. The throne room sends him reeling, the space and grandeur almost too much, and he looks around at the portraits of the kings before Bucky, sees the stern eyes of his father King George, and he wonders how Bucky stands it, any of it. 

Steve swallows, dutifully takes a few shots, makes notes on his phone about things he needs to remember, tries to keep up with Romanoff. There’s the contract, signing, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head when he sees the sum he’ll be paid, part upfront, part upon delivering the final product. His hands shake when he puts his name on the dotted line. He gives her his final list of things he needs, trusting in her promise to make sure everything will be provided. Some of the void seems to burrow in his heart, and it follows him all the way home. He looks through the test shots on the train. Where is Bucky in all of this?

The next two days means overtime, making up for lost hours on projects that need priority, taking a late train home and eating leftover lunch for dinner, sitting on his sofa staring straight ahead in an attempt to center himself. Maybe this time he’ll be less awkward. They know each other. But no one else knows. Except Romanoff. That’s a problem. Still, he can be less awkward than last time, without letting on that he knows Bucky better than anyone might think. Should probably start by not accidentally calling him Bucky.  _ Your Majesty. Your Highness _ . Both sound wrong. They lie heavy on his tongue, stiff like he finds his posture firming up trying to think of how to approach the King. He dreams of falling out of bed into endless corridors.

Another car picks him up on Friday, another silent drive from Brooklyn to Manhattan where every minute is spent screaming silently and trying to stay calm. Romanoff meets him, prim and proper, but her smile is easier than he’s seen it before. They see more people, each greeting them, but Steve merely nods. He needs to focus. He needs to keep calm. He needs to-

Romanoff opens the door to the parlour.

There’s a split second where his heart wants to leap out of his chest. People are zooming around, adjusting lights, brushing past him with clothes and makeup. He sees the Dowager queen, patiently talking under her breath with Bucky’s younger sister –  _ Princess, she is Princess Rebecca  _ – and he’s about to panic because it’s like being back at The Plaza, remembering nothing of royal protocol, and then-

And then there is Bucky, a smile on his face when he spots Steve, dressed in a suit that makes him look like a true king, cut to perfection in a shade of navy that compliments his eyes and plays off his dark hair that is slicked back artfully. He is King, but that smile, flashing and then tamed into something more timid, that is all Bucky. Steve exhales.

It’s fine. He’ll be fine.

It’s not exactly easier, because they still have to pretend like they haven’t seen each other for almost a year, but there is a kind of comfort in knowing, just the two of them. Steve directs him with ease, and he jokingly herds his younger sister, while the Dowager queen, Winnifred, smiles and shakes her head at her children between shots. It’s so…  _ normal. _ Yes, it is impossible to forget who they are, where they are, but Steve’s heart clenches at the familiarity between them, the ease and the warmth there.

They wrap up the first part, and the room is thrown into a flurry of people zipping back and forth while Romanoff directs them. Steve hangs back, packing up his gear slowly to avoid being jostled. His phone shows a new message.

Wilson

_ >>You okay? _

_ >>If ur free, ur still welcome to hang nxt weekend _

_ >>Cousin’s in town, and I am gonna earn so many best cousin points. Esp if you tag along _

_ >>Drinks + grub at society café nxt Sat? 7 pm? _

Steve shakes his head. Sam is not gonna let this go unless Steve actually shows up at least once. Maybe if he lets the cousin down gently and gives Sam a not-entirely-untrue story about not feeling the game right now, he’ll give it a rest.

Me

_ >>Doing ok. Guess I can do one drink _

_ >>And I cannot stress this enough: one drink _

_ >And I’m not making any other promises either _

“Mr Rogers?”

The sigh and a sharp retort is on his tongue, and Steve only barely manages to hold it back, locking his screen and looking up to see Bucky standing next to him, hands in his pockets. His mouth is puckered just enough that Steve knows he’s trying not to laugh at whatever consternated expression is colouring his own expression. Fine. Two can play that game.

“Your Highness.”

They’re not alone, and Steve can see Natasha watching them warily from the doorway. He’s not sure who is going to give the other one more shit afterwards for their choice of address.

“New glasses?” Bucky mumbles under his breath, angling his body so that no one can see them talk.

Steve feels his cheeks heat up, and his hand shoots to push the glasses, the frames a little lighter than his last pair, higher on the bridge of his nose. 

“Courtesy of the Dollar Tree.” He clears his throat, forcing back the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I hope you are satisfied so far?” Steve asks, taking a minute step back, creating distance when he’d really rather eliminate it.

The King mirrors him, perhaps also feeling the eyes of his guardian.

“Very. Shall we?” He holds out a hand to allow Steve to walk first.

“Right. Change of venue. And change of clothing for you, I believe?” 

Steve’s phone buzzes in his hand.

“Just don’t laugh at me.” Bucky furrows his brows, looking down at Steve’s hand when the phone keeps buzzing. “Work missing you already?”

Steve looks over his shoulder. Romanoff is still hovering, directing a couple of staff in hushed tones.

“No, it’s, uh- It’s Sam. Sam, who did the feature. He’s, uh… He’s trying to set me up on a date. I think he’s excited.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s eyebrows almost shoot for the stratosphere, and he is the one putting distance between them. “That’s-”

“It’s-”

“Your Majesty.”

Romanoff. Always with impeccable timing. She taps the watch on her wrist and points out the door. Bucky gives her a terse nod.

“I suppose I’ll see you later, mr Rogers.”

Steve wishes desperately that they had more time, that they had space and time and privacy. As is, he simply nods, watches the King turn on his heel and walk out the room. He ignores his phone, sets it on completely silent and asks one of the staff to please help him find his way.

The throne room has not lost an ounce of its grandeur. The vastness of it makes Steve’s head spin, and it’s hard to find focus on any one detail. He desperately needs something to hone in on, something to ground him. The room seems absurdly long, the red carpet leading up to the throne seemingly expanding forever and making the throne itself look like a distant dot at the end of it. He looks to the portraits, stern men guarding the room, and hesitates over King George. The brush strokes are fine, resolute, no sign of hesitation, capturing a sovereign that ruled the country for nearly forty years. Steve looks at him, eyes flickering over the face. He sees the fine features, the strong jaw, eyes a similar blue to Bucky’s, but George holds a winter’s chill in them that is not present in his son.

The change of venue has him on edge, seems to have everyone on edge. They don’t ease into the shoot like before, and while the King’s entrance is not heralded as such, it is hard to miss when the big doors are swung open and the hum of the room dies down at once. The King walks in, crown on his head and ermine-lined robes over a military uniform. He looks to Steve when he passes, a fleeting second of contact before his eyes glide past him, up to his father, his grandfather next to him, his ancestors and predecessors.

It’s different, and Steve can’t find a way around it. Maybe it’s the venue, the inadvertent pomp and circumstance, the props. The King doesn’t smile, doesn’t move as easy, doesn’t seem to relax. Steve does his best, tries angles, poses, coaxing and encouragement, but it’s as if there is a wall between them. Maybe, he figures, this is what it’s supposed to be like. There needs to be a side of the King that is solemn and steadfast. No smiles, no jokes, just focus on the task at hand.

“Thank you so much, mr Rogers. I think we’re all very happy with the work done here today,” Romanoff tells him later.

Steve feels drained. He doesn’t want to think of the trip home, he wishes he could just make himself manifest at home, cut out the time spent travelling altogether. He thanks Natasha, tells her he will send them the edited files as soon as possible and message over the physical copies at his earliest convenience.

“Follow me, we’ve got a car waiting to drive you home,” she says, and he wants to believe the pleasant smile on her face.

The King had left as soon as Steve announced he was done. Maybe it was childish to think he would come back after changing out of the robes and everything, but it still stung when minutes ticked by and there was no return. Steve lets out a breath. He’s tired, Bucky must be, too. Of course he’s not coming back.

He almost doses off on the way back to Brooklyn, and his driver discreetly clears his throat when they turn onto his street. Steve thanks him, groaning as his stomach churns. He should have ordered takeout while they were driving. Now it won’t be here for a good half hour. Whiling away the time only makes the seconds seem longer. Sam texted up a storm, but Steve can’t bring himself to face the level of excitement waiting for him. So many exclamation points. Instead, he boots up his laptop, transferring the images from the shoot. Just to look at, nothing more. Get an idea of what he’s up against in terms of workload and time, nothing more. He gets one picture in, one of the last ones from the second part of the shoot. The eyes that look back at him are harsher, colder, a wind coming in from the north. The King stands tall, mouth set in a neutral line, but his eyes.

It might as well be George Barnes looking back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> \- I cannot express how much I love writing Nat and Maria. It sparks so much joy  
> \- I also cannot express just how cool Loup is with most of my New York- and Brooklyn-related questions. I have literally messaged her "if a neighbourhood in Brooklyn was limbo, which neighbourhood would that be" and she got back to me in like fifteen minutes, no questions asked  
> \- At one point, I pondered if Rebecca would have an honorary title, a'la Princess Royal or something alike. I knew full well I would very likely not need to mention it in the fic, but it still took up a good chunk of time while I was writing this chapter, and I came up with a big fat nothing  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner and art by my lovely collaborator LemonadeHearts. Betaed by my incredible Beka.

Overtime is a bitch.

Overtime haunts him, even after he’s worked off the Friday photoshoot. Granted some of it is editing the pictures for photoshoot, and he stays at the office after hours to take advantage of the superior editing suite on his laptop. Most of it, though, is just work. For a while in the beginning it feels like he’s running, and not in a bad way. Somewhere in the beginning of the madness, he meets with Sam and Sam’s very nice cousin for drinks and a ragu that is not half bad, even though he gets sauce all over his shirt and makes Sam disappointed when he bows out early. He wakes up the next morning to a text from an unknown number, and really, that’s on him, he should have made sure Sam knew this was never gonna become anything.

Still, he feels bad letting the cousin down. There’s maybe a slightly boozy touch to the pancakes he makes that morning. 

Still, it’s doable. Like a jog, a morning run where he’s riding the wave of work, hacking away at assignments, editing the pictures of the King on the side. It’s high-pace but he can do it. 

So then it all, of course, goes to shit. It’s projects that expand, projects that get pushed back, moved up, visions that change. A gallery finally calls him back and wants him to come in to present his work and discuss an exhibition and he barely notices how October bleeds into November. Was there even a Halloween? Steve can’t remember anything. He thinks he bought candy. There’s definitely an image floating around in his head of seeing Angie and Peggy done up in full 40’s regalia, but sometimes they dress up like that for fun, so who even knows.

Me

_ >>Hey do you wanna take a look at the pics someday? Making good headway with them, and I know your press office or whatev will have final say, but thought maybe you’d want a preview _

He sends it off on a whim.

Okay, so he’s sitting and looking at one of the pictures from the first part of the shoot when he types it, but still. A whim. Mostly. Romanoff has given him strict instructions for how to proceed once he has edited the images, how his payment would be processed, an endless talk about copyright, but it’s not like Bucky will take the pictures and run off with them. It’s just a nice gesture, Steve thinks. Letting him see it beforehand. Maybe they can order food, and maybe Bucky will have something fun to say about just how stern he looks all done up with the crown and the robe. 

His phone rings later that night, and Steve almost trips over himself scrambling for the damn thing.

“Hello?”

_“Stevie, hi!”_

It’s not that he’s disappointed. He doesn’t talk to his aunt often, so hearing her voice is nice. Just not the one he assumed would be on the other end of the line.

“Hi, this is- How are you? Is everything alright?” he asks, sinking back into his couch and pushing up his glasses onto his head so he can rub at his temples.

_“I’m fine, we’re all fine, thank you, how are you, sweetheart?”_ his aunt rattles off, and it makes him smile to hear the lilt of her Boston accent.

“Good, it’s… things are good. Lotta work, y’know.”

_“They running you ragged, huh?”_

Steve laughs. Always such a worrier, just like his mom. “No more than usual. ‘S good though. Keeps me busy.”

_“Good, good.”_

There’s a pause, and something creeps up Steve’s spine and suddenly he knows what’s coming before she says it. It’s like muscle memory, his lips almost moving along in real time.

_“Listen, I know you’re probably busy but I just wanted to say that… that you know you can come home, right? For Thanksgiving? It feels like we haven’t seen you in ages, and you know we’d love to have you.”_

It’s a lie, but he appreciates the attempt. After his mother passed, he bounced around a couple of distant relatives living in the city during the first few weeks, sleeping on their couches before his aunt and her family opened their doors to him. It was strange, coming to this family with everyone pretending he was part of it when he had only ever seen them a handful of times before, a couple of Christmases when he was little and one big family gathering upstate two years before Sarah died. It would be for only a little over a year, everyone thought he should take the time, stay with family, find his feet again and have that security before going off to college. He still can’t see what safety there was in moving, in transferring schools, starting from zero with a family that tiptoed around him and then-

“I know, I’ve…” He falls quiet, wonders which lie to tell, how to let her down easy because whatever else has happened, she is still some kind of family, always sweet and caring.

_“Oh, of course. I understand. You’ve got your own life over there. I try to look through the magazine every now and again, you know. You’re really talented, Steven.”_

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Why is she making this so hard?

“Trying my best,” he says with a fake cheer tinging his voice that makes him cringe.

_“She would be so proud, y'know.”_

It takes everything in him to not end the call right away. To hum and continue sounding happy, making an excuse about having to run, spouting off promises to call, to come by, _maybe next time he has vacation time coming up, send my love to-_ he swallows, won’t say it, chickens out and says everyone before rushing through goodbye and hanging up.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He brings up the message thread with Bucky. Still unread. He waits for the chat to show when Bucky was last online, thumb hovering over the call button. 05.42 am. Steve would like nothing more than to hear his voice now, but if Bucky is busy, he doesn’t want to bother him. 

He clicks out of the message. This day. Fuck this day. He shuffles off to bed, making a pit stop in the kitchen to take a swig of the first liquor he gets his hands on, a god awful scotch that he bought two years ago and has barely touched since. It burns down his throat, but not enough to take with it the lump that’s forming there.

His mood doesn’t exactly improve over the next few days, but at least there’s work to keep him busy and Wilson counting down the days to Thanksgiving, waxing steadily more poetic about his mom’s cooking and just how he’s gonna hustle some cousin or other out of money this year. For all that he hears about it, Steve doesn’t actually think about the holiday until the week before when he’s standing in the middle of a Trader Joe’s, watching two middle-aged women steadily work their way up to where fisticuffs might ensue over a frozen turkey unless someone calls management. It’s funny, he hasn’t exactly celebrated Thanksgiving in years. Not since his last year of college, when his aunt insisted he come home for Thanksgiving and he felt too guilty to come up with a reason why he couldn’t. He’s been fine for the most part; he still follows the football game, he gets some sort of Thanksgiving-ish meal from a deli somewhere, he buys a whole damn pie for himself and he is grateful without needing to make a huge deal out of it. 

Steve can’t exactly put a finger on why this year is different, why looking at the prepackaged Thanksgiving meals and pies in the freezer aisles and imagining himself crashed out on the couch, still in his PJs, halfheartedly following the Macy’s parade and football games makes his heart ache.

He buys two pies and calls the deli he ordered from last year on his way home to make sure he gets two servings. If he’s gonna be miserable, there should at least be enough food to allow for maximum wallowing. Maybe he can even find something on Netflix to watch that’ll even make him fall asleep so he won’t have to toss and turn and ponder the depressing fact that he’s been alone on Thanksgiving?

“Steve!”

He’s halfway home when he hears his name called out by an uncanny voice across the street. It doesn’t take long to spot Peggy, a bright red hat atop her head, with Angie already off the curb and creating a traffic hazard to reach him. It takes her all of five seconds to clock his pies of misery, another fifteen to get him to fess up that yes, he will, once again, be celebrating the holiday alone. It’s fascinating to watch Angie and Peggy have some sort of lightning speed silent conversation before both insist he come over to celebrate with them.

It’s second nature to fight them over their invite, but really, he should know better by now than to challenge them.

“I don’t want to impose,” he tells them because Sarah Rogers may have inadvertently raised a hothead, but she also made sure he actually met a manner once or twice in his life.

“Nonsense,” Peggy brushes him off in the kind of voice that automatically makes Steve feel like he should stand straighter. “The more, the merrier. Gives us a good excuse to make more food.”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve bunkered up, no need to worry.”

Angie swats him over the shoulder. “You don’t bunker up for Thanksgiving unless you’re expecting a truckload of relatives.”

“I don’t wanna mooch off of you-”

Peggy interrupts him with a wave of her hand, “It seems to me you are in possession of two passable pies, Steven. We will trade you pie for food, and we do not take no for an answer.”

Steve should know better than to argue against them, but he does, and it ends the way all things end when Peggy and Angie are involved. He folds like a cheap suit and only barely escapes their threat of revoking his pie privileges. Still, it puts a smile on his face, and his fingers tap the screen of his phone almost of their own accord, and he doesn’t realize until he hears the tone in his ear that he’s calling-

_“Yes?”_

“Buck!” It’s sudden and loud and a lady that he passes gives him a disapproving glare. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

_“Listen, this isn’t a very good time…”_

“Oh. Oh, I mean, I was calling in a professional capacity. Sort of.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, _“What is it?”_

“The pictures. I’m more or less done with them, so I wanted to see if maybe you wanted to look at them. Sort of a preview. I mean, I know your- Romanoff or whoever will give the okay, but I figured maybe you’d still like to, you know… look at them.”

_“I’m… That’s nice. I’m sorry, this really isn't a good time. Why don’t you talk to Romanoff and the PR department, maybe we can set something up, okay?”_

He sounds tired. Steve’s not sure why it makes him stop in his tracks, but it does, leaving him right outside his building, one hand on the pad to punch in the door code. Bucky’s never sounded like this before when they’ve talked. A little stressed and frazzled, maybe, but this… this is resignation.

“Yeah…. Yeah, sure, I can do that,” he says softly, finger moving over the pad and the lock clicks. “We’ll set something up.”

_“I gotta go now.”_

Steve has barely drawn a breath to say goodbye when the line dies in his ear. It stings a little, grabs a hold of the hope that’s been flourishing inside him and squeezes it a bit, making his steps up the stairs feel heavy. The pies get tucked away in the freezer, and Steve looks at his paintings, looks at the photos he’s developed. He’s been trying to find a common thread, something that he can put into words and elaborate on when he’ll meet with the gallery in two weeks. His eyes linger on the painting of the skyline, on the muted colours, the feeling of height and isolation. It makes his heart sink even more. It’s Bucky’s world, elevated and alone. Of course he can’t expect him to be available at the drop of a hat, to always be happy. That’s not how the world works. Not for Steve, and certainly not for a king.

He sets the painting away, can’t take the sense of distance it imposes on him. It’ll be fine. He won’t bother Bucky with the pictures. He’ll text Romanoff to let her know he can offer a preview to make sure all parties are on board with the vision. That sounds professional and mature. It’ll be fine.

Only, it isn’t.

Again, work slams into him, overtime holds him hostage and on the day before Thanksgiving he falls asleep on the train and wakes up five stations past where he was supposed to get off, and he almost makes dinner liquid and alcoholic when he gets home, but manages to keep from downing a whole bottle of wine. It won’t do to wake up tomorrow hungover and possibly late. He finds some soup stuffed in the back of his freezer, god knows when he had the foresight to save it, but it saves the night and he goes to bed feeling warm and content.

Celebrating Thanksgiving with someone else is… not awful. It’s a bit weird at first, like trying to find his footing because it feels like he should be more formal, more guest than friend, and when Angie tells him he looks good, Steve absolutely does not tell her just how long he stood in front of the mirror trying to decide if a pair of slacks and the cardigan over the shirt was too formal or not formal enough. Peggy trades him pies for a glass of wine, and there’s about ten minutes of him standing awkwardly just outside the kitchen trying to make conversation with the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade playing on the tv in the background before they ask if he would like to peel the potatoes.

It’s easier from there.

Mostly because there is wine and Peggy brutally roasts his potato peeling skills until Angie laughs so hard she almost swipes the salad bowl off the counter. They move easily around each other, hip checking each other and sharing chaste cheek kisses, and Steve blushes despite himself. It’s so soft and domestic and he thinks about the morning, the precious moments before Bucky had to leave. The world was simple, there was nothing but them and the only thing clouding his mind was the fog of sleep. 

It’s fine.

They watch football while the turkey finishes up in the oven. That, Steve feels okay with. Even alone, he’d always catch the game, whether the teams playing were one he rooted for or not. Some things you don’t give up on just because you’re alone. Peggy shakes her head at them, trying to extol the virtues of rugby, but both Angie and Steve are too busy heckling the ref to listen. 

He hesitates a little when Peggy announces everything is ready, hangs back just a few seconds to watch Angie almost bounce out of the couch to head to the kitchen, waiting to see what the protocol is. They hadn’t set the table as such, just put out plates and cutlery on one side of the table, so maybe they’ll do it properly now? Is that maybe a tradition for them? Slowly, he gets up, follows the happy chatter and tantalizing scents to find the slightly intimidating scene of Peggy with an absurdly big knife, carving a comparatively small-sized turkey. It somehow manages to be both hilarious and a little scary because Peggy looks like she knows how to handle a knife a little too well.

“Do we…” Steve glances quickly around the small kitchen. “Should I help set the table, or?”

Peggy and Angie look at each other, then at Steve. Steve feels his cheeks heat up. Shit. He’s said something wrong.

“We kinda just eat in the living room,” Angie offers, scooping stuffing into a bowl. “Set up all the food on the table like a buffet and eat on the couch. It’s just been us for a coupla years now and we, well, we never really felt the need for the formality. Plus, I really want to watch the game.” She gives a little laugh, then immediately turns to him, eyes wide, “But we can totally set up here if you want.”

“No!” Steve winces a little at how loud that comes out. “No, I just- I wasn’t sure how you guys did Thanksgiving. Couch is fine, it’s- I’m totally fine with the couch.”

He doesn't say why, and thankfully, neither Peggy nor Angie asks. They go back to setting up dinner, and Steve helps by taking wine glasses and several bottles to the living room, setting the glasses on coasters and the bottles in a neat row. Angie calls him back just as a touchdown is scored.

Thanksgiving dinner with his aunt and her family was a scheduled affair, with ironed shirts and combed hair and so many little traditions that Steve felt he fumbled through. Before that, with his mother, Thanksgiving would be… still an affair, but more like this, he reminisces. He has faint memories of Thanksgiving with relatives when he was really young, but later, all dinners were at home with a couple of the neighbours from their floor. One of them, this older lady that Steve can never remember if her name was actually Meema or if that was a nickname, always brought a pumpkin pie that tasted like it had been crafted by angels.

He likes this Thanksgiving. He likes slouching on one end of the couch, plate balanced on his stomach and his wineglass half full on a little side table while they all make noises at the tv where the game is about to end. He likes offering to get dessert wrangled, rummaging to find the whipped cream they prepared and dolloping it on each generous slice of pie. He likes coming back to find Angie half-napping, head lolled to the side to rest on Peggy's shoulder.

It’s nice. Steve can dig this Thanksgiving.

“Aw, that’s nice.”

Angie’s voice is slow and a little slurred, between napping and awake, but she points at the tv. Steve’s not sure when they actually watched something with focus last. They’ve channel surfed and napped and eaten more pie, and every show has sort of melted together. This, though. It makes Steve’s heart do a little skip. A news cast is showing a reel of the King, from the turkey pardon, which Steve finds equal parts morbid and hilarious, to the current footage, of the King and his mother and sister working a station at a soup kitchen, all three of them in nice clothes and complete with aprons and hair nets and gloves. It’s strange. Steve looks and he can’t see Bucky. There is a smile on the King’s face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s a tightness there instead that makes Steve frown. 

_This isn’t a very good time-_

“-Steve?”

“Hmm?” He turns, head at once feeling heavy and sluggish.

“Was he nice? When you did the thing for the magazine?” Angie repeats, jabbing her finger lazily at the screen. “He seems like a nice guy.”

Steve thinks about it; thinks about their texts, the chain now grown silent and ending in a message that has not yet been replied to, the visits, the night and the morning together and the man on the tv is not the same. There is a disconnect between what he sees and what he remembers, and his heart aches at the thought that maybe that gap will grow and he has no right to wish for or ask for it to be different. The man he longs for is King.

“I guess. We… didn’t get to talk a lot,” he mumbles, looking away from the tv and fumbling for his almost empty glass of wine. “There wasn’t really time to get to know each other.”

“‘S gotta be a strange life,” Angie muses out loud.

“Yeah. Gotta be.”

They continue channel surfing. Steve sneaks out when both Angie and Peggy nod off, leaves a note thanking them for dinner and tells them to keep the leftover pie. His body feels heavy, his mind feels heavy, and it’s not all because of the day’s dinner. The King haunts him, the tension carried in his shoulders, the tight smile. Steve faceplants into bed, still half dressed, pulls up their messages.

Me

_ >>Hey do you wanna take a look at the pics someday? Making good headway with them, and I know your press office or whatev will have final say, but thought maybe you’d want a preview _

Still unread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> \- Thanksgiving is such a befuddling holiday. I do love pie though, so thank you Thanksgiving for introducing me to pecan pie.  
> \- The caption on InSight's cover is based on a Vanity Fair cover from September 2003, which featured Prince William on the cover.  
> \- This chapter includes one of my favourite lines of the entire fic, which is "because Sarah Rogers may have inadvertently raised a hothead, but she also made sure he actually met a manner once or twice in his life."  
> \- Also, you know... Sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner art by my lovely collaborator LemonadeHearts. Betaed by my amazing beta Beka.

“Hi, this is Steve Rogers, calling about scheduling a meeting, I’ve been in contact with Natasha Romanoff, who directed me to you. Get back to me when you can, I’d love to sit down and get your opinions on the pictures.”

He rattles off his phone number before ending the message, giving a deep sigh before putting his phone away. It’s not that he’s frustrated. He’s not. Absolutely not. This is a big deal, his ass is not covered as such by InSight’s policies, even though they are getting a piece of the cake. His first payment came through the day after Thanksgiving, and even though it was only part of it, the number still made him lose his breath a little. He can do a lot with that sum alone. Like replenish his stock of painting supplies, maybe even splurge on some higher quality paints and brushes. Pay the gallery fee, reserve a chunk for opening night expenses. Get high quality prints that he’d like to include in the exhibition. Get business cards. Treat himself to actual, good food.

The payment had reminded him to contact Romanoff, who had sent him a short reply about talking to the PR department, along with the number for their head honcho, and Steve is starting to wonder what the point is of calling a person who never seems to answer their phone. Time is ticking, the Palace wants to unveil the pictures for the New Years celebration. One would think the head of PR would answer their god damn phone, right?

It’s fine. Busy schedules, Christmas is coming, he feels it, too.

He hoists the portfolio bag a little higher on his shoulder, crossing the street to get to the subway entrance and onto the train. If he’d had a little more backbone, he would not have agreed to a meeting at what is subjectively the asscrack of dawn on a Saturday, but he does not want to give the gallery owner any reason to reject him, so an early morning meeting in Bed-Stuy it is. Steve thinks he’s got a good setup, a sort of a common thread running through his pieces, a logical transition from one work to the next, with a few extra pieces in case there’s something that doesn’t work in the space or if there needs to be an extra piece somewhere.

“Rogers, right?”

The man greeting him when he knocks on the gallery door looks like he’s just crawled out of an engine room, with smears of oil on his shirt and his face. He wipes off his hand on the already splotchy t-shirt hiding under a blazer before holding it out for Steve to shake.

“Clint, great to meet you. Come in, I’ve got coffee in the back, have a cup, I just need to…”

He gestures towards the back then waves to himself, and Steve just nods, glancing around the space as he moves in the direction Clint had indicated. He finds a door ajar, peeking into it and spotting a small kitchenette-like space with a coffee maker sputtering menacingly. It sounds almost a little too aggressive, but Steve doesn’t care. It’s too early to be picky about coffee.

The coffee, despite the dubious coffee maker, isn’t half bad. Strong, but after a few nights of crappy sleep, it’s exactly what he needs to kickstart his system to get him through this. It is entirely possible that it’s more of a roundhouse kick, and it is also entirely possible it is going to bite him in the ass later. Steve sets down his portfolio on the table, nurses the coffee while he waits.

This is okay. It’s fine. It’s big and frightening and his heart is having a freakout, but it’s fine. This is finally happening.

“Okay, let’s get started, shall we?”

Clint sweeps into the room, a fresh t-shirt on under a biker jacket. His hands and his face have been scrubbed clean and he pulls out a chair to sit down, fingers wiggling and eyebrows raised. Steve promptly loses his ability to form intelligent and coherent sentences for a bit. Things are very much not fine, what the fuck is he doing and why does it feel like his heart is about to make a speedy exit right through his rib cage?

“Mind if I take a look again at your work?” Clint mercifully asks, and Steve gratefully nods, pushing the portfolio across the table.

It’s strange to sit in silence, to simply watch as Clint flips through the photos of his work, humming at the details Steve has provided about each. Steve thinks he gets a good read on the guy, little tells about pieces he really likes, but it doesn’t make the minutes tick by with any more ease.

“What are these?” Clint’s holding out the handful of prints of the backup pieces, tucked into a separate sleeve.

“Oh.” Shit. Words. C’mon Rogers. “It’s- They’re a couple of pieces I wasn’t sure would fit, but I wanted to bring them, see if they would make more sense when I see them placed in the space.”

“Hmm.” Clint flips through them, cocks his head and holds up a picture. “I like this one. I think you should definitely include it.”

Of fucking course. Steve hums, and Clint tucks it in with the rest of his confirmed pieces, patting it with a small smile. There’s not enough coffee in the world to get him through this, and if that roundhouse kick could come soon, he’d be eternally grateful. Clint seems none the wiser about Steve’s inner turmoil, and takes him on a tour of the gallery space. It… helps. A little. He can slip into photography-mode, evaluating the setup, see the possibilities, imagine the composition taking shape in front of him. He doesn’t notice when Clint takes a step back to let him wander around, clip the difference pieces to their prospective places. The illusion cracks a little at the picture Clint picked out from his backups, makes him hesitate. 

It’s a good picture. 

But-

His phone rings, blaring in the empty space. Steve clips the picture to the wall, mumbling an apology to Clint before he sprints out to take the call.

“Rogers.”

_ “Steve Rogers? Hi, this is Hope van Dyne, Director of Communications with the Royal Palace. I understand you’ve been trying to reach me?” _

There’s a moment of absolute silence before his mind ticks and switches gears, “Oh! Oh, god, yes! Yes, hi, thank you so much for calling me back!”

_ “Yes, well, we have a lot going on here.”  _ Hope tells him, and Steve can already tell she is the same kind of no-nonsense as Natasha and would probably scare the crap out of him if he ever came face to face with her.  _ “How can I help, mr Rogers?” _

“Right, so, um, I don’t know if Natasha- ms Romanoff, that is, if she’s told you at all about my proposal to sit down with the King to look at the pictures before signing off on them? They are pretty much done, but I would like to offer you, and the King, the opportunity to get a preview of them, see if they are consistent with your vision for the shoot.”

One. Two. Three. Hope sighs on the other end of the phone.

_ “That is… a very thoughtful idea, mr Rogers. We appreciate the offer. I cannot promise that I can get this on the King’s agenda, he is a very busy man… If nothing else, we can schedule a meeting just you and I and someone else from my department, and discuss your pictures.” _

He’s not sure why his heart sinks so much at her words, why this undeniable truth hurts. It’s childish, he thinks, scolding himself. It’s childish to hold out hope, to expect. It’s the King. Not Bucky, not even James. He is King, and there are more important things, more important people in his world than Steve.

_ “Mr Rogers?” _

Hope’s voice, sharp in his ear, has him tipping his head down, rubbing at his forehead.

“Sorry, bad connection.” He winces at his choice of words. “Could… could you repeat that?”

_ “I said, how about I check our schedules and get back to you?” _

It’s business speech if ever Steve has heard it, but his heart is not in it to push the issue. He mumbles a reply, and Hope van Dyne hangs up on him, leaving him standing on the street feeling like he’s already been run over, so why can’t someone come along to just sweep him away.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit…” he curses quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, swallowing back the hurt that has somehow followed the disappointment and wrapped itself around his heart. 

“You okay?”

Clint is behind him, halfway hanging out the door and looking at him with one eyebrow cocked. Steve draws a breath, pockets his phone and forces a laugh that sounds as hollow as he feels.

“Yeah, no, it’s fine. It’s fine, just… Work.”

Clint frowns even more. “On a Saturday morning? Thought you mentioned you had weekends off.”

Steve shrugs, “It’s for a project, we’ve kind of been missing each other with calling back. It’s fine, I’m okay.”

“Tell me one more time, and maybe I’ll believe ya,” Clint jokes, stepping aside to let Steve back in.

Steve almost wants to tell him that he doesn’t even believe it himself, no matter how many times he tells himself.

He stays for another one and a half hours, finalizing the setup, photographing each piece in its intended place, drawing up a plan for the opening. Mid-February, it’ll give him time to get everything ready, find a good printer to make professional prints of his photos, maybe add something that would pop up in the meantime, stock up on drinks for the opening, hire a freaking caterer. It’s a good distraction, even if he panics a little at the checklist Clint hands over to him, detailing everything that needs to be fixed for opening night. The gallery can help out, but there are fees for these additional services, and Steve isn’t sure if he looks like he can’t pay for it, but he just nods, thinks maybe he needs a continuous distraction. If he’s fretting over this, he can’t fret over… other things.

It’s a fine plan, and it works perfectly until he gets home, until the noise of the city dies down behind closed doors and the list gets tacked to his fridge with a silly magnet he has no memory of buying. It’s definitely not torture when he brings up the images from the King’s photoshoot, clicks through them, looks at each while something sharp and cavernous forms in his heart. It’s been almost three months. Three months, and he has not seen Bucky, barely even talked to him since. He clicks ahead, and the setup changes. It’s like flipping a switch, he thinks. Going from cool, calm and familial to something that is bright and furious. Back. There is Bucky, at ease, one hand on his mother’s shoulder. He is regal, but the man Steve met shines through, catches in the spark in his blue eyes. Forward. A King whose eyes are void of warmth, jaw set like he is biting down hard. Determined and growing into something imposing with his ermine robe and finery.

All at once, Steve realizes there’s nothing he can do. The pictures are fine, some of his better work, even. He is looking for an in, a way back to a bubble he had no business being in. He just wants to see Bucky again, get in the same room, if for nothing else than to see that he is still Bucky, that he is not the man staring back at him from the screen. He is looking at Bucky with longing, with…

_ Aw, fuck. _

There’s a knock on the door, and he really, really wants to ignore it.

_ “Steve? You in there?”  _

Angie.

_ “I thought I heard you come back.” _

Angie, who won’t take no for an answer. Fuck. He shuffles off, cracks the door open. Angie, bless her, lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Oh, there you are!”

“Hi, Angie.”

“I thought I heard you, gosh, you were up early today. Listen, I wanted to check if you’re planning on going anywhere for Christmas? Peggy and I are gonna stay in the city, so you know, if you’re going somewhere, we can take in your mail while you’re gone. No sense in having it pile up, and we could call you if there seems to be anything urgent.”

Well.

That’s another holiday Steve hasn't felt the need to put much effort into since he moved out on his own. For a couple of years now, he’s gone on trips, gotten out of the city, found a hotel or b&b somewhere he could take pictures, do anything except think about Christmas and how everyone else was celebrating with their near and dear ones. Last year, god, it feels like an eternity ago. Rhode Island, the airbnb right by the coast. His only concession to Christmas then had been to watch Die Hard, because that was a good movie no matter what time of the year you watched it. It had been nice, a long weekend where he’d bunkered up with enough food that he hadn’t needed to go into town. A bubble where it was any winter weekend, nothing special, nothing exciting, just him unwinding.

Angie is looking at him, her gaze polite but imploring. Right. Answer.

“Um, it’s… kind of up in the air still?” Steve fibs, pushing at his glasses and trying for a smile. “I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Sure, Steve.” Angie moves to turn, but she hesitates, gives him a quick onceover. “You feeling okay? You look-”

Like a wreck? Like a certifiable disaster? Steve would not be surprised by either. He feels like both, endlessly falling apart piece by piece, piling his arms full trying to gather himself back together without succeeding.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he still says, waving her worries off. “It’s just been an early morning. Long week. And a long week, I mean. You know, I think I might go back to bed, I’m clearly not awake enough to keep conversation. I’ll let you and Peggy know about Christmas, okay?”

Maybe he closes the door a little too quickly on her, and he’ll feel bad about it later, but Steve can’t. He can’t handle it right now. He’s at his rope with being polite and smiling and squashing down all of the unpleasant facts that have been trying to get his attention. It lives in his chest, poking at something raw and open, but Steve can’t make himself say it, not yet. Get through this month, he thinks, it’ll be okay. New Years is around the corner and everyone starts anew on January 1. He can do the same; hold on for a couple of weeks, then look at it all for what it is and let it go.

He can do that. He just has to get there first. 

Baby steps.

First, Christmas.

Or at least deciding what to do with it. He’s been so caught up in, well, everything, that Steve realizes he hasn’t once during this year thought about where he wants to go for Christmas. Three-hundred and sixty something days, and not one moment of those days has been spent thinking about how he’ll hermit himself over this wretched holiday. It’s too late to find anything now, or at least to find something that won’t be horribly overpriced. If he even breathed a word to Peggy and Angie, or worse, his aunt, he’d be taken in almost surely by force. No, he can’t do that. He won’t. 

He makes a plan, or as much of a plan as he can scramble together. He orders grocery delivery to last him through the holiday, actually sits down to think of things he wants to make from scratch. It’s a gift, he thinks, for himself. Time spent being kind. Time spent. Nothing Christmas-y, but meals that will take a good chunk of time and last long that he might even have leftovers to snack on or freeze for later. His exhibition checklist. Might as well get started, really look it over, make some notes, see about who to call after New Years. He dedicates one day to getting new canvases, a couple of new brushes, tops up his supplies of colours. Maybe something will come to him, better be prepared. Hell, maybe he’ll even go to midnight Mass this year.

By some grace, Steve doesn’t have another run-in Peggy and Angie, and it shouldn’t feel like such a victory. With the exception of a slip where Sam finds out that he’ll be staying in town, he has successfully created a hermit holiday. With one week left, it feels good. He’s ready. Everything is squared away. 

Well.

Almost everything.

There is still a folder on his laptop that he has steadfastly tried to ignore, and though the void in his heart has ached a little less, it still thuds dully when he realizes he’s heard nothing, neither from Bucky nor from Hope van Dyne. Time is running out, and he is ambushed by his need to sort everything out, have everything nice and cleared away before Christmas on his way home from visiting his mother’s grave. Something heavy settles in his stomach, screams at him to just leave it be, to send off the pictures and move on.

_ “Romanoff.” _

Hanguphanguphangup.

“H-hi, Natasha. Ms Romanoff. Sorry. Hi, it’s Steve Rogers, did I catch you at a bad time?”

_ “Steve?”  _ The line rustles, goes quiet for long enough that Steve wonders if the call has dropped before Natasha speaks again.  _ “Sorry about that. What can I do for you?” _

Heat is creeping up his throat, and Steve can’t stop the litany ringing through his mind; this is a terrible, terrible idea.

“Look, I… I don’t know if you’ve talked to Hope Van Dyne lately? This is- I have not heard anything back after I talked to her like you suggested, and, uh… we’re, you know, getting down to the wire.”

_ “Jesus Christ…” _

The sigh that follows opens an entirely new chasm inside him, and there is nothing for him to hold onto, no safe space to ensconce himself in. No one about to relay good news starts it off with “Jesus Christ”, least of all with a resignation that Steve can feel through the phone.

“Ms Romanoff?”

She curses again under her breath, slipping into a different language before she gives another sigh.  _ “I told him… I told him I wouldn’t- Steve, I’m sorry, this is…” _

His pulse is thrumming, the beat of it rising steadily to a thunder that drowns out the din of the city noises around him. Not good. Part of him wants to hang up. If he hangs up, he won’t find out, and he can live in ignorance until after New Years and just let go without ever finding out, and it’s a copout but he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t, but-

“What’s going on? Ms- Please, Natasha, what’s happening?”

_ “Steve, I- Maybe pick up a magazine. The kind I know you tend to avoid.” _

Steve furrows his brow, “What?”

_ “Go read a magazine.” _

With that, the call ends, and Steve can’t move. People are passing him by, someone cusses him out for not moving, but he can’t. He’s in a bubble, trying to make sense of what just happened, what he did, what Natasha told him. An older lady bumps into him and whacks him with her cane, muttering under her breath about “goddamn tourists” when she disappears in the flow of people.

_ Go read a magazine. _

Natasha’s right, he doesn’t read  _ those _ kinds of magazines, actively avoids them. It’s sensationalist bullshit that he does not want to associate with. No one’s life is made better from them. But-

_ Maybe pick up a magazine. _

It’s as if every newsstand in Brooklyn has suddenly vanished, Steve ambles around the neighbourhood for a good hour before he finally spots one. At once, his heart beat picks up again, his fingers trembling when he scans the selection. New York Times, Washington Post, Marie Claire…  _ No, no, no, not right, not this, this is not- _

It feels as if the air is sucked from the air, trapping him in a vacuum that silences out the cars in the street, the rustling of pages in the breeze, the clinking of the man with the hot dog cart next to them. His speeding pulse dies, falls into an abyss trapped between two beats.

The headlines, ink spilled across the front page screaming out at him to  _ looklooklook. _

**KING OF THE PARTY!**

**A ROYAL ROMP!**

**SEE ALL THE PICTURES!**

He looks… wrong. The tele lens has captured Bucky in the middle of a laugh, head tossed back with one arm draped around a beautiful girl, but it’s  _ wrong. _ It’s wrong like the way Bucky’s features hardened into stone in the throne room, it’s wrong like his voice when he told Steve it wasn’t a good time to talk. It’s wrong and he can’t look away, can’t tear his eyes away from the bright colours and Bucky’s arm around the girl and the laugh that isn’t right and-

“This ain’t a library, pal.”

Steve looks up, dazed and with a lump in his throat to find the vendor looking at him, one eyebrow arched. Judging.

“You wanna read, you buy it.”

He looks down at the magazine, his knuckles already paling from gripping it too tight. There’s a whole pile of them, gossip rags that all proclaim the same twisted gospel bright and loud over shoddy pap pics of a man Steve thought he knew. Wordlessly, he digs around for his wallet, takes one each of every tabloid and throws two twenties to the man before he turns and leaves.

The train home passes in a blur. He thinks someone eyes him, his choice of reading, but Steve can’t bring himself to care. They’re last week’s numbers, last week’s pictures, last week’s stories. Salacious inferrings, rumours and hearsay, and he should know better than to take them at face value.

But it’s Bucky.

It’s supposed to be Bucky, and though the features are there, the sharp cheekbones, the blue eyes, the smile, it’s not him. He is a stranger, and Steve can’t even tell if this is James or some other facet of the King’s persona that he simply doesn’t know. Whoever he is, he is taking the Riviera by storm, dipping over to Monaco to let loose and paint the pages with a socialite or a royal something or other on each arm. There are pictures on yachts, tanned skin and name brand sunglasses. There are exclusive nightclubs, dark corners and shameless kisses.

Steve retches, falling to his knees in front of the toilet at home while tears sting at the corners of his face, staining his glasses. Each dry heave brings a fresh wave of anger, and he can’t even figure out who he is really mad at. He was silly to hope, to even entertain the thought that there might have been something between them. A childish fantasy.

_ But the morning. _

_ “All of me.” _

Childish. A silly, stupid dream that he should never have held onto. It’s never that easy, never, not for him, he should have known. Hell, he knows better, and now look at him. Steve drags himself out of the bathroom to go boot up his laptop. No more dreams. The message he writes for Hope and Natasha is perfunctory, short and polite with the link to his cloud storage. No more hoping. Send and done. Steve lets his face rest against his palms, breathes through it. Finally, finally, done. His limbs feel heavy when he gets up and he grimaces at the magazines discarded by the door, but he’s unable to leave them, picking them up and clutching them close as he drags himself to the bedroom. Salt in the wound. Burn it out. Start fresh.

“Merry fucking Christmas, Steve,” he mutters to himself when he crawls into bed, all but tossing his glasses onto the bedside table, ready to drive the knife lodged in his heart a little bit deeper.

Wilson

_ December 24, 6.33 pm _

_ >>Still in town? Wanna tag along on New Years? We’re all gonna NOT go see the ball drop and get drunk off our asses at this place I know instead _

_ December 24, 6.36 pm _

_ >>and y’know Merry Christmas too, even tho you’re a whole and entire grinch _

_ December 26, 10.22 am _

_ >>Steve I know you’re never more than six feet away from your phone, answer me _

_ December 26, 1.53 pm _

_ >>Did something happen man? _

_ You have one (1) new message _

_ “Steve, what the fuck, man? Did you lose your phone? It’s been two days, call me back.” _

_ You have one (1) new message _

_ “Steve, I am not kidding. Call me back right the fuck now, or I’m coming out to Brooklyn to check up on you.” _

_ You have one (1) new message _

_ “I am coming over, Rogers. You better fucking thank me because you know how much I hate the fucking C train. You better be alive or I will revive your ass just so I can kill you myself for worrying me. Don’t tell anyone ever that I said that.” _

Someone is knocking on his door. 

Pounding, even.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, curling up tighter on the couch.  _ Go away, go away, go away. _ He’s so close, he just needs to- he just has to- His stomach growls, a churning noise that makes him whine and think whoever is possibly trying a very idiotic way of breaking and entering must have heard it. There’s soup. Should be soup. He thinks he fixed soup one of these days. Evenings? Steve can’t remember, can’t find it in himself to care. Fuck. There’s bread. Toast and a slice of cheese in the middle, poor man’s grilled cheese. That sounds good. Shit, that sounds really, really good.

With a grunt, he lifts his leg, swinging it forward to propel himself up to sit. Everything… He can’t tell if he hurts or if he feels nothing or if there is some strange limbo where both coexist.

_ “Steve, open the damn door!” _

That’s-

Sam?

Why is Sam here? That’s not right, he’s- he lives in- Sam should not be here.

_ “Steve!” _

He doesn’t particularly want to open for Sam. Steve realizes that in all the years he has worked with Sam, the other man has never been over to see Steve. They have each other’s addresses more as a courtesy, the kind of invite that you extend because it’s just something you do, with no expectation that the other person will actually come over. 

But Sam is here. Sam is here, banging down his door, and Steve slowly takes stock of himself. A mess is too kind of a statement. He’s done nothing but sleep, it feels like, but he knows if he looked in a mirror, he’d look harrowed and there would be dark circles under his eyes. The stubble that had been little more than a shading before Christmas has turned into an itching menace that is as prickly as he feels, and his fucking cheap Dollar Tree glasses have broken, the two pieces lying on the floor at opposite ends of the room because he hurled them there in a swift flash of rage. At some point, he’s changed to pajamas, an ugly pair that he has no memory of getting. All in all, not presentable. Maybe he can keep quiet and Sam will leave and he can-

_ “Steve? Steve, are you in there?” _

Well. Fuck.

Why is Peggy there?

_ “Steve, I’m going to come in, okay? Just… please be decent?” _

It’s as if whatever has been keeping him even remotely upright these past couple of days completely deflates when he hears the key turn in the lock. Steve can’t, he can’t fight anymore. It’s time to let go, and his body follows, slumping back down on the couch and reducing itself to base functions. Breaths, in and out, a steady pulse under his skin.

“Steve?”

“Steve? Steve, are you okay?”

Sam and Peggy, and hands lightly touching him, and it is too kind and too much and not what he wants,  _ who _ he wants. His body curls, turns on its side with his knees pulling up against his chest. Breaths, in and out, rapid now. Letting go. It’s fine, he thinks, close enough.

“Steve, what happened?”

Peggy. Her voice is softer than he’s ever heard it, void of that sharp tone and the laugh that always seems to hide just behind her words. It’s nice. Calming. Calm is good. His eyes flicker to seek her out, finds it with pinched eyebrows and a mouth set in not quite a purse. Sam is there behind her, arms crossed over his chest.

“Steve?” Peggy tries again, crouching down beside him. “Can you tell me what happened?”

What happened?

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, then gives a humourless bark, because fuck, isn’t that the truth. “Nothin’ happened.”

“Dude, you didn’t answer your phone for five days, forgive me if I take issue with that statement,” Sam grumbles from above.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, armour against what little is left of his heart, gaze falling from Peggy to where his fists are balled up tight, “‘M fine. Jus’ need to eat somethin’.”

Something must happen, some wordless exchange because there are footsteps retreating, and a body slowly easing down to sit next to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Peggy. She doesn’t touch him, no more than where their bodies are connected on the cramped couch. Steve can feel her gaze on him, light and void of judgment, of the heavy pity he desperately wants to avoid. Talk. What is there to talk about? Nothing happened. He shakes his head. Letting it go.

“Were they important?”

She lowers her voice when she asks him, keeping it from Sam’s ears. Steve doesn’t know what to say. Yes, Bucky was important. No, what happened wasn’t, clearly. Peggy seems to accept his non-answer, right in time for Sam to return, berating him for the state of his fridge, and if he knew things were TARFU, he would have brought leftovers. They watch him like hawks while he chews away at toast and slowly empties a bowl of soup like he is a sick child that needs the supervision.

“Thanks,” he says when he sets down the empty bowl on the coffee table. “You really didn’t need to come.”

He figures one of the true and tested lines for getting people to leave will work, but neither Peggy, nor Sam moves a muscle. Peggy is still sitting next to him, hands primly folded in her lap, while Sam is leaned up against a wall looking like he’s trying to glare Steve not quite to death but to some very serious injury. Steve runs his hands through his hair, then drags his palms down over his face.

“I swear, I’m fine. You don’t need to babysit me. It’s New Year’s Eve, there are better things to do.”

“That, I can agree with,” Sam says, pushing himself off the wall, “and that is why I am not letting you out of my sight.”

Steve furrows his brow, “Excuse me?”

“You’re right there are better things to do. You also have better things to do than mope around in your apartment. Go take a shower, I’m not bringing you on the train looking like an aspiring mole person.”

“Sam…”

Steve turns to Peggy, hoping to find some support, but there’s that smile he knows and fears.

“If nothing else, it’ll take your mind off things.” He doesn’t miss her subtle emphasis on the words ‘things’. 

“Come on, this is ridiculous! And- And- And my glasses broke.” He points at one half of them where they lie almost obscured by a row of canvases.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam bites back. “And we both know you don’t really need them. Shower, now. Get.”

“I sw-”

“Shower!”

“Fine!”

The all-consuming sadness is briefly exchanged for anger when he stomps past Sam into his bathroom, turning on the shower to as hot as it will go, ready to scald himself. It’s a hard, cold kind of anger, flashing through him, but melting the second he steps under the spray, hissing at the heat. They’re just worried. It’s been days. Has it really been days? Steve mentally tries to do the math, find each day from  _ Then  _ to  _ Now _ . It all melts together, runs of him like slurry, leaving him feeling empty and drained. He wants to sleep, wants to go back to curling up on the couch. He can still do New Years. There is – should be – something in the fridge he can make for dinner, there’s bound to be some sort of alcohol in the kitchen. Watch the ball drop on tv, that’s New Year’s, right? And yet… 

Sam will not back down. Steve knows him well enough to be sure of that. Sam won’t let him stay a hermit. Maybe he can go. Take his mind off of things, avoid seeing- Just one drink, go out with a bang, welcome the new year. Start fresh. One drink.

“Listen,” Sam says, ambushing Steve the second he sets foot outside his bathroom, “I am not gonna take no for an answer, and turns out your kind neighbours have no other plans either, so it’s three against one, and I am not beyond carrying you down the-”

“Okay.”

“-stairs to the- What?”

“I said okay. I’m not fighting you on this.”

Sam stares at him, mouth hanging open while seconds tick by.

“Close your mouth, you’re gonna catch flies.”

The cogs slot into place, and Sam crows and punches him in the arm. Steve manages to disguise his wince with a smile, listening with only half an ear while Sam talks about the place he’s found, things will be great, it’s far enough away from Times Square that there won’t be a shitload of tourists. Steve just hopes that a night out with Sam, Peggy and Angie will fill some of the lingering emptiness that remains. He touches his hand to his chest, expecting to feel raw edges and tender skin. Nothing. Just the warm, steady beat of his heart.

It’ll be fine.

* * *

_ You have one (1) new message _

_ “Buckyyyyyy? Shit, I… Y’know what, fuck you. I don’t even know why I called, because why would you answer? Haven’t fuckin’ answered anythin’ in, what, two months. You’d think I’d take a hint. Well, I don’t. I fucking don’t. I’m- I’m- I’m fucking stupid and drunk and I can’t let it go, Buck. I’m gonna. Now. Please, just… Did I do something? You could’ve told me. If I did something wrong, you coulda told me. I woulda been okay, y’know. I think… I think I fuckin’ love you, okay? And I know that’s stupid, and I don’t have any right, but just… Nothin’? Jus’ talking to me and lettin’ me know what happened, lettin’ me down easy woulda hurt too, but not as much as this. Two months, Buck! I’m done now. Fuckin’ done. I’m just… I tried for you. Okay? I woulda tried more, however you wanted to, if you’d just- God... I tried. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just... very sorry.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner by my incredible collaborator LemonadeHearts. Betaed by super-Beka.

The new year is cruel.

The new year is an asshole and Steve spends an indeterminable amount of time considering the virtues of time travel. His head feels like it’s playing host to a 90s rave, and he’s pretty sure he’s coming down with a cold if his aching body is anything to go by. Carefully, he pats at the bed, heaving a sigh of relief when he finds the space next to him empty. 

A small mercy.

Things got fuzzy quick after they hit the first bar. Angie had pulled them into the place, just a block from their station, insisting on one beer, one beer for the road. And while Steve is pretty sure they only had one drink each there, it was not the only drink of the night.

Groaning, Steve pats around, finding his phone jammed in under his pillow, six messages, fifteen missed calls and five voice mails waiting for him. Christ, this better be someone he knows, he really can’t deal with any strangers right now.

Wilson

_ January 1st, 12.22 am _

_ >>Where the hell did you get off to? _

_ January 1st, 1.12 am _

_ >>Steve call me back _

_ January 1st, 1.34 am _

_ >>Steve. Fucking. Call. Me. Back _

_ January 1st, 1.58 am _

_ >>We are not doing this again _

_ January 1st 2.11 am _

_ >>I am not running around all of Manhattan like a deranged Stanley. Or like your friend _

_ January 1st 2.43 am _

_ >>I am going to assume you made it home, but you fucking text or call me the second you see this or so help me god _

The missed calls are divided evenly between Sam and Peggy, and he guesses the voice mails are from either or both of them. Part of Steve wants to throw the phone away. The mere sight of Sam’s slew of messages brings back enough that his gag reflex activates and he can taste all manner of liquor on his tongue and for fuck’s sake, who gave him  _ brandy _ ? Throwing the phone away, however, will lead to Sam texting him more. Or worse, calling. Or worse-worse, Sam kicking down his door and yelling at him in person. All of which are undesirable outcomes.

Me

_ >>Home, safe, not missing any kidneys. At least not yet. Although I sure feel like I’m down a few organs _

He jams the phone back under the pillow, curling up under the covers and then focuses on breathing. In and out, nice and slow. It’s fine. He’s at home. In his own bed. Alone. His heart aches at the thought, the fucking traitor. This was the plan. Fuck it, this  _ is _ the plan. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, waits until the stars stop dancing against his eyelids and there is nothing but darkness. This is what he wanted. A fresh start in a new year. All the yesterdays of last year have been sufficiently drowned, and he can focus on what’s in front of him. A whole new year of possibilities. His exhibition. Work.

Ugh, work.

His phone starts ringing, and even squashed under the pillow, it makes a sound that has Steve grimacing as he flops over to find it, glancing to see that it’s Sam.

“Mmph.”

_ “Well, good morning to you, too, Cinderella!”  _ Sam could be screaming through a bullhorn for all that it makes Steve’s head pound.

“Fuck you,” he grumbles back, putting Sam on loudspeaker and setting the phone away at a distance where the volume won’t be so horrendous.

Sam cackles,  _ “Serves you right for ditching us. I thought your friend was gonna tear down the city trying to find you.” _

“Who, Angie?”

_ “‘S that the British one?” _

That… is a surprise.

“Peggy? Peggy wanted to go find me?”

_ “Dude, she is scary. And awesome. But yeah, she was intense. Her girl had to confiscate her phone. Speaking of phone, where the hell were you?” _

“Your guess is as good as mine, I have no fuckin’ idea. I’m home, in bed, alone so nothing too disastrous could have happened,” Steve mutters, turning over on his back to look at the ceiling.

_ “Had to have been one hell of an adventure getting home when you’re not answering phone calls or texts.” _

Groaning, Steve grabs for the phone, brings up the call list, “I did mention I woke up alone, didn’t I?”

Missed call: Wilson. Missed call: Peggy. Missed call: Peggy. Missed call: Wilson. Missed call: Wilson. Outgoing call-

“Fuck!”

_ “What? Is someone there? Is it a dead body? If it’s a dead body, I’m not helping you get rid of it.” _

Steve would much prefer a dead body to this, honestly. This is why he needs a wingman. Not to score, but to keep him from doing dumbass shit like this.  _ Outgoing call: Bucky.  _ According to his phone, a call that lasted two minutes and thirteen seconds. Jesus fuck, had he actually talked to Bucky last night? Two minutes is way more than just listening to a beeping call tone. Two minutes is some kind of talking happening.

_ “Steve!” _

Sam’s voice is loud and insistent and a drill through his skull straight to the part where his hangover lives and thrives. The new year is a gross disappointment, and he’s only got himself to blame.

“I gotta go,” he says, feeling panic rise within him. This is not good, this is very far from good. “It’s-” A clusterfuck. An unmitigated disaster. A true testament to just how dumb he is and why he should have stayed the fuck home last night. “I have a thing.”

_ “Yeah, a thing that I’m now gonna assume is a dead body, Steve,”  _ Sam counters, sounding more than a little on edge.

“It’s not a dead body, Jesus Christ!”

_ “That sounds exactly like what someone who is hiding a dead body would say, you know that right?” _

Steve rolls his eyes, and turns on his side. “Look, I’ll text you later, okay? I promise.”

He cuts the call right in the middle of a protest, just in time for the bile to rise in his throat, sending him hurtling out of bed to the bathroom to puke his guts out. It’s the worst feeling in the world, and Steve can’t decide if that feeling is the heaving or the call that he doesn’t even remember. Everything in him aches; muscles and joints and heart and soul, leaving him lying on the cool tile floor like a wrung out rag. His pulse is a solid throb that has taken over his body, and the ugly ceiling in his bathroom is made even uglier by the illusion of it spinning. Where is a cold, dark void to swallow him up when he really needs it?

Just…  _ fuck. _

He called him.

He called Bucky.

Words were said. Probably. Likely.

It’s too early to think about the repercussions, the implications of his actions. Truthfully, it’s too early for anything requiring higher thought processes. Steve ultimately drags himself back to his bed, pulls the blinds with a grimace before curling back up under his covers to try to wish himself away from a world that clearly has no intention of being any better just because a new year has started. 

Maybe it’s a little transparent to call in sick for the rest of the week, but in his defense, Steve feels like he’s on death’s door and the bell for hell’s concierge service has been rung. Two days extra will do him good, he can rest, get his head on straight, maybe take a freaking shower at some point when being vertical doesn’t make his knees weak. Monday will be much better. He can start fresh. Again. New week, new Steve.

Until then, hungover, dumbass Steve will have to do.

He feels better on Thursday morning, the ceiling has stopped spinning, and the idea of having toast and a cup of coffee brewed strong enough to make a spoon stand up straight in the mug doesn’t immediately send his stomach into a frenzy. He even texts Sam and sends a picture of himself drinking his coffee. All the plans Steve made before Christmas are all still waiting for his efforts. Most of the groceries are still in the fridge, only picked at for easy meals that took little effort and even less time. The exhibition checklist is still tacked to his fridge.

There’s a start.

So he starts slow. Makes lists, finds phone numbers, plans. He calls Clint to schedule another visit to the gallery the next day to walk through the set up again. It needs a name. Walking through it, seeing the set up, tapping into the vibe, it might strike something in him. At least, that’s what Steve hopes. There are fresh canvases waiting for him, but his hands still feel a little shaky, and his mind distressingly blank when he tries to imagine himself painting. Another day.

Clint, if possible, looks worse for wear than Steve when he arrives at the gallery. His speech is more slur and grunts than anything else, and there’s an obscenely large mug of coffee in one of his hands. He’s left to his own devices, Clint shuffling off – barefoot, Steve notices – with a command to lock the door behind him when he leaves.

It’s nice, walking around in the quiet space, placing the photographs and prints the way he wants them, wandering from one to the other, looking at them to find… something. Steve can’t tell if he’s looking for a flaw, an excuse to take a piece out, or a common thread. On his sixth round, he snorts, running his fingers through his hair (that shower is happening the second he gets home, he decides, this is unbecoming). Maybe he should just pick a name, any name, let people speculate what it means and go with whoever comes up with the best theory for why he’s named his exhibition this or that.

Clint is nowhere to be seen when he finally gives up on finding something that is clearly not there. Steve leaves a note in the breakroom that he’ll call during the week to discuss catering options, the opening and scheduling for getting his prints and paintings delivered and checks at least five times that the door is locked behind him before he heads home. Home, where he can lie down and tell himself he is doing okay. Home, where the tabloids are shoved under his bed like a shameful secret that he doesn’t want to admit to. Home, where no one knows just how much he cracks at the edges behind closed doors.

Home, where someone sits on the steps to his building, and he’s ready to give Anton another sermon about fucking  _ checking his goddamn pockets before he leaves his apartment. _

Home, where it’s not Anton outside, and Steve feels his body turn to stone when he realizes just who is sitting on the stoop.

“Hi, Steve.”

The tan does little to hide how gaunt Bucky looks, even less so in the dark ensemble of black jeans and a grey scarf tucked into a black wool coat he’s wearing. The dark circles under his eyes, the disheveled hair, the hunched shoulders, it all makes him look so small, so…  _ normal _ . Steve realizes that the James that has been haunting him these past couple of months has been the image of the King, larger than life and gilded in finery. The man sitting in front of him is not even a shadow of the King. He thinks this may be Bucky, a version of him that no one sees. He wants to be angry, wants to feel rage simmer in the pit of his stomach because why? Why is he here? Why won’t life, the universe and every magical entity out there let him move on? He wants to spit venom, sink claws into the frayed edges of Bucky’s small smile and tired eyes, and rip him to shreds the way he himself fell apart chip by chip as the silence whittled away at him. What he gets is a resignation that holds his heart by a thin thread, dangling it in some cosmic balance, because when is life ever easy?

“Thought Halloween was two months ago,” he says, more of a mutter than anything else, trying to avoid Bucky’s gaze.

It works like a charm. Until Bucky gives a humourless chuckle and it pulls Steve’s eyes up. Still on the steps, still looking like he hasn’t slept in days, still so devastatingly handsome.

“That your way of saying I look like shit?”

Steve swallows. He sounds so much like he used to, before something changed. He sounds like there has not been months of silence between them. As if Steve hadn’t suddenly been left to wonder, to guess, to assume.

“What do you want, James?” he asks with a sigh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He doesn’t miss the little wrinkle that forms on Bucky’s brow before the expression on the man’s face is wiped clean, mouth set in a neutral line.

“Can we… talk? Maybe inside?”

Move on. Let it go. Start fresh. The sentiments echo inside his head, remind him of just where Sam had found him on New Years Eve, of just how hollow he’d felt, how much it had hurt to see Bucky in the tabloids like that. Steve swallows. He should decline, say something about there not being anything to talk about, politely send Bucky on his way, let their paths diverge again. Move on, move forward.

But.

There are things to talk about. And maybe moving on and letting go will be easier if Bucky can tell him why, if Steve can find out what he did wrong. Shrugging, he nods his head to make Bucky follow him. It’s a quiet walk up the stairs, their steps creating a hush in the stairwell. With every accidental brush of their arms, the lump in Steve’s throat grows, and he’s not sure how he’s going to be able to speak at all.

Inside, safe behind a closed and locked door, he still feels uncertain. He toes off his shoes, Bucky mirrors. He walks into the living room, still in his jacket, hands in his pockets. Bucky mirrors. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Where are your glasses? Shit, sorry, I mean- Sorry. It’s none- You… you look good,” Bucky says, and it’s a shitty start, but Steve is eternally grateful he is not the one to start this.

“Thanks.” Pause. Bucky sits down on the couch.

“Your pictures were really nice. For the- Well, you know.”

“Sure.”

Pause. It hangs in the air, shivering and quiet but impossible to ignore, no matter how much they both want to. Steve wonders how long they could go on being stubborn, trying to crowd the room with empty smalltalk, if they could stall their way out of this. Both too stubborn, but Steve figures he’s never been good at being a coward. He’s had bruises to back it up. Inhale. 

“Monaco looked nice. Fun.”

Best get all the bitterness out of the way. His words carry no bite, but Bucky winces even so. It shouldn’t feel like such a win.

“Look, Steve, about that…”

“I don’t care that you went to Monaco, I don’t care about what you did there-” Well, that is not entirely true, but Steve is not about to let Bucky know just how much he has tortured himself with the glossy tabloid pages, “-I just… I wish you would have talked to me.”

“Because that would have solved everything…” Bucky mutters, shaking his head and wringing his hands.

_ Fucking- _

Steve throws up his hands, “It would! Jesus, fuck, it would have! I would have known what the fuck I did wrong and I could have moved on instead of whiling away week after week thinking you were just busy and thar you’d text me back eventually, and then slowly, because apparently I am a goddamn idiot, realizing that you were not in fact busy, you were full-on ignoring me.”

_ Keep it together. Keep it together, don’t- _

_ Breathe. Swallow. Calm down. _

Bucky is looking at him like Steve just broke his heart, and Steve can’t help the little twinge of triumph that whispers  _ now we’re even. _ He pushes it down the minute he realizes what he just thought, appalled and once again expecting his sainted ma to manifest in the room to look at him disapprovingly. It’s not a goddamn competition, there is no tit for tat.

“Steve, you-” Bucky lets his face fall into the palms of his hands, and who needs a ticking clock when Steve can count the passage of time by the rise and fall of Bucky’s back, a perfect curvature that he aches to trace the spine of with his fingertips, but knows will burn him if he touches.

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a step to the side; an olive branch, a way out for both of them. “Look, I’m fine.”  _ Liarliarliarliar. _ He swallows again, draws the next breath through his nose. “You don’t need to worry, ‘m not gonna go tattle to any of the papers. We’re okay. You won’t hear from me again, ever again. You can go home.”

_ Take it, _ his mind screams, rattles the words around so much it hurts.  _ Please stay, _ his heart whispers, low and ardent,  _ talk to me, stay with me. _

“Goddamnit, Steve, stop!” 

The words explode between them, Bucky shooting up from the couch so quickly it startles him. The coffee table rattles, and Bucky moves, paces back and forth and Steve has no idea what he’s supposed to do, what he’s supposed to stop. He takes another step back, another step to the right, leaving more way, removing himself from the path to the door, from the path Bucky is on.

Bucky glances over at him, something pained flashing across his face, “Steve…”

“‘M fine.” Shrug. Arms crossed. “Told ya.”

“That’s not-” Bucky stops dead in his tracks, and it’s like watching a balloon deflate the way his shoulders sag and the anger bleeds right off of him. “This is so fucked up, this is so… Steve, I fucked up. I… I fucked up.”

That’s...

It is a statement that covers a lot. Steve stands still, doesn’t say anything. Hell, he doesn’t even know what to say. Bucky sighs, tips his head back and mutters something under his breath before he looks back at Steve.

“You didn’t do anything.” He speaks it like it is a universal truth, a fact of life. “You never did anything wrong. I… I fucked up. I-I was a jerk to you and I thought- I thought I had to do this.”

“Thought you had to do this?” Steve echoes, and there’s the bitterness again. “Had to- Bucky, what the fuck makes you think that was okay? You ghosted me like a common fuckboy and went skipping off to fucking Monaco to hang out with supermodels, what was I supposed to think? That we were fine? You think I wasn’t gonna find out or that I was and I was just gonna accept that you fucked off to fucking Europe to-”

“No!”

That feral look is back in Bucky’s eyes, a frantic fear that makes Steve want to reach out, hush at Bucky and tell him it will be okay, the way he would a stray cat. It’s perplexing, and his fists ache where they are crossed over his chest, balled up, fighting the impulse to just  _ touch _ .

“The photoshoot,” Bucky says, staggering back with a humourless chuckle. “Fucking… Natasha was on me for weeks, and my mom was so happy when I finally said I had made plans, and she talked and gushed and- I swear to god, I was falling apart. And then you came, and it didn’t feel so daunting to sit down and pretend this was normal. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. To feel normal, to have a normal life, to- And you… All those months, Steve. You gave me so much, and I never knew how to thank you. Thought I was gonna explode when we kissed, it was… I was so happy.”

“What changed?” One step, small, a shuffle, a breath closer.

“My father.” 

“Your- He’s d-”

Bucky waves his hand at Steve, then drags it through his messy hair, “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. He’s dead. He’s dead, and yet he still manages to fuck me up from beyond the grave.”

With a shake of his head, Bucky goes back to the couch, plops down with his elbows resting on his knees. The way he peers at Steve is not exactly calculating, not quite resigned, but something between the two. It makes Steve’s skin itch to be held by that gaze.

“Do you wanna know a secret, Steve?” The question is rhetorical, Steve has barely drawn a breath before Bucky continues. “My grandfather was like me.”

There’s a bite to the word “me” that makes it perfectly clear what he means, and now Bucky’s gaze is definitely calculating. He gauges Steve’s reaction with a smile only just showing at the corners of his mouth. The fact sinks in slowly, and when it does, Steve knows his face has betrayed him because Bucky leans back.

“No one knows that. My grandfather had a… clandestine relationship with another man. A friend, from what little I was told. He was in love.  _ They  _ were in love.”

Shuffle. Closer, like a magnet slowly being pulled in by an opposite charge.

“What happened?” Steve’s voice is quiet. He knows, of course he does, but the questions begs to be asked.

“He had to give up his love. Times were different, it would never have been accepted. He would have been shamed, hell, he could have been deposed and started a revolution given the political climate at the time. The friend disappeared out of his life, my grandfather married my grandmother to save the monarchy. My father was born a year after the wedding.”

The tone of his voice, Steve remembers it. It’s the same mechanical cadence he used when Bucky last spoke about his father, the rocky relationship. It sounds like a story he’s heard countless times, repeated countless times if only to himself.

“They didn’t get along well, my grandfather and my father. Almost seems like that’s a Barnes family trait. Some people inherit jawlines and noses. We inherit father-son troubles. My grandfather resented my father, apparently didn’t hesitate to tell him as much, my father resented my grandfather and took every chance he got to rub his old man’s nose in his own happiness once my father married my mother, the love of his life. I was seven when my grandfather died, and the one thing I remember is that my father had my grandfather’s portrait moved to a room where he wouldn’t see it.”

Steve realizes he’s hovered even closer, only the coffee table separating them now. His arms aren’t as tightly crossed over his chest, his fists no longer clenched tight. The anger is still there, burrowing in his chest, but more than anything, he feels sorry for Bucky, for the mess that has been inherited down to wreak havoc on him.

“The crazy thing is, when my father died, for a moment it felt like a shadow was lifted from my life. This… this man who had disapproved of me so much, who couldn’t really look at me the same after I came out, was gone.” Bucky’s voice is wistful, and he turns to look towards the window, where a pale sun backlights the canvas on the easel. He heaves a sigh, shakes his head. “After the funeral, I walked into the throne room, and I stood there and looked at his portrait and thought that things were going to be different now. Things were going to be better. Then I realized I was going to have to be him. I had to be king, and I had to figure out a way to find myself in all of that and then… Then I met you.”

Steve can’t help but smile. “That was a year ago. More or less,” he says, a small smile that softens the anger a little more.

“Yeah?” Bucky’s gaze is drawn back to him, mirroring the easy smile. “Feels like a lifetime ago. Didn’t know what I was doing then, don’t know what I’m doing now.”

“Ja- Buck.” It’s a small concession, but Steve gives it freely. The man is trying, and the way he perks up at the mention of his nickname makes Steve’s stomach flip. “What happened at the photoshoot? You seemed fine and then you stopped talking to me. Next thing I know, Nat’s telling me to pick up a magazine and you’re… you know.”

“I was happy. I had- You were in my life and I… I thought I could make it work, screw everything else. Then the shoot, and I came into the throne room, and there you were, and I saw my father’s portrait, and… I was terrified that somewhere down the road, there would be a choice. I’d have to bring you into this, or I’d have to let you go. I can’t ask you to choose this life, Steve. It’s not easy, and it would be even harder because… because it would be us. You told me about Sam trying to set you up-”

God,  _ that _ . Steve winces, rubs his forehead, “Nothing happened, Sam just… Sam is a good friend, and he tries to be a wingman, but I promise, I wasn’t interested.”

Bucky shakes his head, “No, Steve, god. That’s just it. That’s normal life. Your friends trying to set you up, and giving you shit. My life is not normal. I want- Steve, I love you, okay?”

Somehow, Steve’s always imagined that the first time you tell someone you love them, or you hear someone tell you they love you, it’ll be a moment where the world feels like it’s stopping on its axis. Every movie makes it seem like something momentous, a grand declaration. Not something tacked onto the tail end of a guilt-ridden confession, said with such ease and no hesitation. Another fact of life, a function of Bucky’s being.

“I love you because you make me feel normal,” Bucky continues, “but I can’t ask you to leave that behind, I can’t ask you to submit yourself to the scrutiny, the… the vitriol that would very likely follow if… if we…”

“So you decided you’d make that choice for me?”

He doesn’t approve, not by a long shot, but Steve can’t deny the logic. He never thought of anything past the times he has been with Bucky; both of them safe and blind in the bubble they created for themselves. Thinking ahead, even to the point of the two of them agreeing to be exclusive is a little intimidating. But going public? Being subjected to the opinions of every single person with a phone and enough confidence?

Steve doesn’t think of the m-word, but it trips across his mind, a lightning quick vision and the weight of something on his finger.  _ God, his life would be a mess. _

“I know I had no right,” Bucky says, voice breaking as his face falls into misery, “I thought I was saving us both a lot of pain. I thought if I broke it off now, if I let go of you and all the happiness we had now, it wouldn’t hurt so much in the future when I… when I would likely have to make the same choice my grandfather made.”

“You’re right, you didn’t. It wasn’t your choice alone to make,” Steve tells him, and Bucky’s face falls even more, eyes rimmed red. “You were not the only one in love, Buck. I… God, I can’t remember when I last told someone I loved them, really, really loved them, but with you? I loved you, Bucky. Fuck, I still do. All of this, and like an idiot, my heart still loves you. I was as much a part of that equation and you just removed me. Removed me from the decision, removed me from your life. I would have understood, okay? Trust me, I know full well who I fell in love with, and I would not have asked you for the rest of our lives.”

Bucky shakes his head, and the first tear trails down his cheek, “I can’t ask you…”

“You don’t have to. I told you, I knew who I fell in love with. You don’t have to ask me for anything. I’m not gonna lie, thinking about everything that comes with…” Steve lingers on the word, tastes it, feels his heart swell as it settles in him, “dating you… It scares the crap out of me. I don’t want to be trouble for you. I don’t want to endanger anything for you.”

Maybe the words are wrong. Steve figures they have to be. He’s trying to say something big, trying to put words on all the things that have ached and hurt for months, the vast and scary something that grew out of their friendship. He’s trying to say something important, and he’s failing, because Bucky hides his face in the palms of his hands and the measured breaths are only for show. Steve knows it well, the rhythmic in and out disturbed by the slightest of shivers. He rounds the table, lets his leg brush up against Bucky’s before slowly sitting down, easing their bodies to touch. It feels right, like little sparks travelling up and down where their arms brush against each other.

“Hey. Hey, do you wanna know a secret?” He keeps his voice low and soft, nudging Bucky gently, takes his silence as permission to continue: “I’m selfish. I’m a selfish fucker. I should be scared out of my mind. I should be telling you to leave and cut my losses, but I am so fucking selfish. I don’t want to let you go. I spent two months pining like a teenager, and I can’t take it anymore. Buck…”

Steve nudges him again, and finally he looks up, blue eyes wet with tears and holding a question not yet ready for words. God help him, Steve wants to hold him, tell him everything will be okay, but there is no guarantee, he knows that.

“You don’t have to ask me for anything. I’m giving it to you. And I’ll take as many days as we get, whether that’s a week, or a month, or a year, because I am a greedy idiot. Whatever happens along the way, we’ll deal with it. I’m with you, okay?”

Bucky looks like Steve has told him ghosts are real and aliens are hovering over the Empire State Building. Incredulity, disbelief and wonder all flash across his features. That’s not right either.

“You don’t need this, Steve…” Bucky tries, but Steve can tell it’s a half-hearted attempt, soft and wrapped in the same kind of hope he nursed all those months.

Steve shakes his head, leans in closer to rest his forehead against Bucky’s hair, snaking one arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “You’re right, I don’t. But I want you. You can’t make me run away from this. Maybe one day we’ll have to walk our separate ways, but I’ll never run.”

Bucky lets out a breath that has his entire body shuddering before he turns into Steve, wraps his arms around him and holds on like Steve is an immovable object in the middle of a storm. It’s a closeness he has missed, longed for and he never wants to let Bucky go. Both of them pull at each other, both needing the other, and Steve is Steve, never able to back down from a fight. One quick yank, and Bucky twists to straddle his lap, taking it in stride and burrowing his nose against the crook of Steve’s neck, fingers tripping to undo his jacket and find the warmth underneath. It’s good, god, it is good, and it’s not the end, Steve thinks. It’s a beginning, and they will need to talk, there needs to be more talking, but this… This is sandwiches from Katz’s and brunch at Hamilton and a surprisingly good D.C. pizza, all wrapped into one, and he will take everything he gets, every touch, every hum of breath against his skin, every tremulous beat of his heart.

“Steve.”

Bucky’s lips brushes against him, his name uttered like it is something sacred. They sit like that, molded together with nothing to mark the time, nothing to pull them apart. No kisses, no movements, just relishing in the undeniable presence of the other while their breaths sync up. 

Steve’s almost dozed off, so blissed out in their little bubble that he only just catches that Bucky is muttering something. His limbs feel stiff when he tries to squirm into a position where he can look at Bucky. The dark circles under his eyes are still there, he still looks tired, but his expression has softened. Steve briefly considers the amount of work it would take to make mandated naps a thing before he remembers.

“Hmm?”

Bucky smiles, leans forward until their foreheads touch. “I said they weren’t supermodels. I didn’t, as you so eloquently put it, ‘skip off to fucking Monaco to hang out with supermodels.’”

The tone is teasing, a little frail, but it sounds more like the Bucky Steve got to know.

“Yeah?”

“Socialites. Some European nobility. I think most of them actually found out I was gay while I was there. And it would be physically impossible for me to skip to Monaco.”

That makes Steve snort. Mostly because his mind immediately conjures a highly amusing visual of Bucky skipping. Possibly with his long hair from when he was a prince. Possibly with that hair in braids.

“Well, I did also say you fucked off to Monaco, is that more accurate?”

Bucky draws in a breath between clenched teeth, “Skipping might actually be more accurate.” Breath. “‘M sorry I ghosted you like a common fuckboy. I made arrangements to fly home right after I heard your voicemail. And Nat tore me a new one when I got home.”

Steve winces.

“I’m still not okay with that… and we’re gonna talk about how not okay I was with that… and how if you do that again, I won’t be as forgiving and Nat is gonna have some competition in the tearing you a new one-department… but maybe fuckboy was a little harsh.”

Bucky deflates a little again, shoulders falling and hunching forward, “No. I was a complete ass. And I can’t promise I won’t be an ass in the future. But Steve, I swear to… to anything you want me to swear to, I will not be that much of an ass. I won’t do that again. I’m with you, too, okay? ‘Til the end of the line.”

There needs to be more talking. Steve knows it. There needs to be talking and clarifying what happened, the how and why again. His fists clench again when he thinks about how there might need to be a talk about how his uncle, his aunt's husband, had all but blown up in his face when Steve had been caught kissing a boy just a few months after he moved in, and no matter how Steve tried to stammer out that he also liked girls, his uncle wouldn't listen, and would treat him like air unless someone else was around. He swallows hard. Talk later. Right now, he wants nothing more than to kiss the man he loves, that he can finally admit to himself that he loves with everything in him, and who loves him back enough to open up about the darkest parts of himself. They seal their promise lips to lips, holding on to each other while the world seemingly spins around them. There’s no telling what awaits them, and odds are that it might be a mess.

Bucky’s tongue swipes at the seam of Steve’s mouth, and he lets out a hungry noise, fisting his hands into the soft knit sweater Bucky’s wearing.

Scratch that.

It will be a mess, but it will be theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> \- Beka truly made this chapter better by pointing out certain things that made me go "oF COURSE"  
> \- Bucky was a dumdum, we can all agree on that  
> \- Steve being salty is one of my favourite Steve-characteristics  
> \- Writing this chapter required... so many tissues and so many breaks. Not kidding. So. Many.  
> \- My favourite reaction from my beta was without a doubt this one: *dancing in the background like I'm Jefferson enjoying the FUCK out of the Reynolds Pamphlet fallout*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner by my amazing collaborator LemonadeHearts. Please check out her stories, especially the one she is writing for this big bang. Yup, you read that right, not only has she been creating incredible art for this story, she has also written her own story that is posting right now!
> 
> Betaed by my wonder-Beka, who gave me the greatest gift ever in the live reading of this chapter that she sent me and that I have watched more times than I can count.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Steve has his hands full with empty beer bottles and a half-full bowl of chips, and his phone might as well be a bomb for all the urgency it prompts. Hurrying out to the staff kitchen, he dumps the bottles and the bowl, almost dropping the vibrating phone trying to extricate it from his back pocket. Bucky’s name flashes on the screen.

"Hi? Sorry, that was- Hi."

_ "This a bad time?" _

Smiling, Steve can't help but furrow his brow, "Yeah, we're just finishing up here. Wait what time is it for you? Is this a bad time?"

It's the closest he can manage to "is something wrong". Bucky is in Tokyo on a state visit, and although they have talked about the visit for a good two weeks, Steve has been worrying more about Bucky going there in the past week than he has been freaking out about his exhibition's opening night. It’s been an uneasy month of trying to find their way back to normal, of difficult conversations and one very awkward lecture in PR logistics from Natasha that Steve hopes never to repeat. They have. A freaking  _ strategy. _

_ “No, it’s… about 10 am here, I just got out of a thing, had some time and thought I’d call you.”  _

His tone is warm and affectionate, and it makes Steve smile. Maybe some of the worry is residual, a nagging in the back of his head, but it is slowly soothed by Bucky’s voice, by the memory of sitting next to Bucky on another priceless couch while Natasha talked and talked and Bucky’s hand slowly slipped to hold his.  _ A mess, but theirs. _

“That’s… that’s really nice. You didn’t have to, I know you’re busy-” He wasn’t privy to the exact schedule, but from Bucky’s huffing in the week leading up to it, Steve could guess that there wouldn’t be much time to rest.

_ “Steve, I’m making time for you.” _

It’s enough to make Steve stop and take a breath, letting himself settle down. No talking himself down, no depreciating himself. Bucky’s words, his terms to counter Steve’s. They talk to each other if something worries them, they make decisions together, and Steve does not constantly tell himself that he is not as important as other facets of Bucky’s life. Shows what Bucky knows about him, Steve still does that, but at least now, he sooner or later catches himself and talks himself out of putting himself last on the list of things he thinks matter to Bucky.

“Fine, I yield,” he mumbles, waving at Clint whose arms are full of empty bottles.

_ “How was the exhibition? Is the exhibition? Are you guys still going?” _ Bucky asks, quickly steering the conversation in a new direction.

“No, we’re done, Clint and I are cleaning up a bit, then I’m heading home.”

_ “I really wish I could be there. This is huge, and I’m so proud of you.” _

Steve glances around. The guests left a while ago, and Clint sent home his assistant five minutes ago. “Hey, how much time do you have?”

_ “Um… Ten minutes? Maybe a little more? How so?” _

With a grin, Steve pulls his phone from his ear, taps to send through the request to switch to video. He hears Bucky call his name before the request is accepted and three dots start flickering on the screen, waiting for the connection to establish. It’s hard not to smile when Bucky comes into view, looking like something out of Steve’s work. There’s a pristine suit peeking out from a navy blue wool coat that he knows all too well, hair carefully styled. At least the jetlag-induced dark circles under his eyes are mostly gone. Steve had teased him that he looked like a raccoon when Bucky had sent a selfie where he was feigning a big yawn after he arrived in Tokyo.

_ “Hey, you.” _

Bucky’s voice is slightly distorted, but Steve’s heart melts all the same.  _ His _ , he thinks,  _ all his _ . Doesn’t matter for how long, right now, this wonder of a man is his, and he belongs to him just as much.

“Hi.” God, Steve sounds awestruck, but he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed by it. He turns around, walks to where the exhibition starts. “Since you can’t be here, I thought I would give you something no one else will get. Private tour of the exhibition of this up and coming Brooklyn artist I happen to know.”

He winks, and Bucky laughs, humming and basking in his good fortune, and they go back and forth, joking about how Steve has an in and if Bucky wants, he can put in a good word with the artist if Bucky wants to purchase any of the pieces. It’s another point of pride, to show Bucky the little dots stuck next to certain paintings or photographs, indicating someone is interested in purchasing them. That had been another adventure for Steve, sitting down with Clint and an art consultant friend to set prices for all of his works.

Well.

_ “Wait… Steve. That’s-” _

They’re at the end of the winding path, having criss crossed around the gallery past every painting, every photograph, just the two of them. Clint left about halfway through, just as they were looking at the painting of the skyline, Bucky’s eyes growing wide as he recognized the vantage point and joking about getting retroactive vertigo. Clint had waved his hand and mimed for Steve to lock after himself when he leaves.

They’re standing in front of the final piece now, a photograph in black and white. Steve watches Bucky’s face go from confusion to realization to wonderment as he takes in the picture.

_ “That’s… That’s your room, Steve. That’s your bed.” _

With a laugh, Steve nods, “It is.”

He takes a step closer, pans his phone for Bucky to get a good look.

_ “Seems kinda weird to include your own bed,” _ Bucky teases, but his eyes are flicking back and forth, still looking, still trying to put the pieces together.

“I guess… Though I also suppose it depends on how you see it.”

Thousands of miles away, Bucky furrows his brow again, cocks his head, then gives a barking laugh,  _ “I see an empty bed. Would fail every inspection at home. Really Steve, do you ever make your bed? I think it’s been unmade every time I’ve been to your place.” _

“Hey! I was supposed to go on a philosophical tangent here and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now!” Steve shoots back, turning the camera on himself so Bucky can see his exaggerated upset.

_ “Fine, fine,”  _ Bucky acquiesces between laughs.  _ “What do you see if not an unmade bed?” _

Turning the camera back, Steve sighs, a happy, content little thing.

“No, I see an unmade bed, too. But it’s a bed that held someone that’s given me so much happiness, who’s made me cry and rage and love.” Steve pans his phone again, slower this time, heart beating louder and louder in his ears as he continues: “It’s not staged. Every crease in the sheets, every dip in the mattress, every fold in the pillows… They were made by two people who shared that bed during a moment when they were just two guys, sleeping off the worst days of their lives, who barely made it through a beer each and never even had the takeout they ordered.”

Bucky doesn’t speak, Steve can barely even hear him breathe over the line, and the seconds slip between their fingers, disappearing into the quiet space. It’s been a crazy month and a half, Steve thinks. Stolen moments between Bucky’s duties, stitched together with kisses, safeguarded with talks and guidelines and the briefing with Natasha. Their relationship is theirs, but it’s also managed by a staff that tries to find a way for them to have their moments, their bubbles, their mornings in bed, their discoveries of good Brooklyn food. There’s not so much a method to the madness as a strategy that’s been laid out to them by a surprisingly angry-looking Natasha, steps and carefully navigated offenses to sway public opinion, worst case scenarios that Steve would rather not linger on. Natasha tells him later she didn’t mean to sound so terse.

“It just makes me angry that this is a thing we need to plan out. Love is… I just want you guys to be happy.”

Happiness is fine. Happiness is a strategy and fallback plans. Steve’s pretty sure there are veritable top secret operations in place in case things go really south. Bucky doesn’t talk about them and Steve will not ask.

Some things are better left private until there’s a need to poke at them.

So long as he can have this, the crumpled sheets and the lingering warmth and the tender kisses halfway out the door, he’ll take all the strategies, all the worry, all the ifs, buts and maybes.

_ “I want it.” _

Bucky’s voice interrupts his reverie, and Steve finds focus back in the real world, in the solid ground underneath his feet.

_ “I mean- If you’re- If it’s not already claimed. I’d really like to get it. Purchase it.” _

Reaching out, Steve drags the tips of his fingers along the edges of the photograph. Sometimes the Bucky from a year ago, the uncertain new King, shines through, and Steve lives for those moments, savours them because it tells him that in the whirlwind that his life has become, some things have not changed.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he says wistfully, fighting to hold back his grin from colouring his voice.

_ “I… Of course.”  _ There’s a beat of silence, then a sardonic laugh.  _ “Is it bad that my first thought was to ask how much someone is paying for it, so I could outbid them?” _

"No. Maybe a little presumptuous, but I think your heart is in the right place. Either way, you couldn't outbid."

The way Bucky's eyebrows quirk has Steve curling his lips over his teeth to not break into a wide smile. It's an "Excuse you?"-look if ever he saw one. He flips the camera to make his own face come into view, and it makes his heart stutter the way the incredulous look on Bucky's face melts away for something soft and loving.

_ “Hi…” _

“You already said that, Buck.”

_ “What can I say, it’s your face,”  _ Bucky quips, shifting in his seat and leaning his head back.  _ “Now what insane billionaire do I have to fight for that picture? And by I, I mean the Secret Service.” _

Steve snickers, both at Bucky’s ridiculous claim and the look of complete earnestness on his face, “Well, that would be me.” Another beat of silence because he can see the cogs turning in Bucky’s mind. “It’s not for sale, I’m keeping it.”

For a second, Steve thinks the connection may have caused the video to freeze, but then Bucky finally blinks,  _ “You’re… you’re what?” _

“Ask me what the name of the picture is,” Steve says, taking a step back, glancing quickly at the photograph.

_ “What’s the name of the picture.”  _ It’s less of an actual question than a dazed statement, Bucky still trying to figure out why.

“ _ Home Is A Private Place _ . This… It’s you and me. And no matter how much anyone would offer for it, it’s too personal. This isn’t the beginning of us, but it’s an important moment. And I don’t want that in anyone else’s hands but our own.”

_ “Our hands, huh?” _ Bucky’s voice is low and raspy, a warmth seeping into it that even a craggy video connection translates, and Steve misses him so, so much in this moment, misses arms wrapping around him, a nose pressed to the crook of his neck, matching breaths and the solid heartbeat under a warm chest.

“Our,” he confirms with a tender smile, and Bucky must hear the longing swelling in his chest.

_ “It’s only four more days.” _

“And then you come home to me.”

_ “And then I come home to you,”  _ Bucky repeats, promises in the solid tone of voice that leaves no room for doubt.

Four days, Steve thinks after they’ve hung up.

Four days, he thinks, locking up the gallery and walking to the train.

Four days, he sighs in bed, turning his face into the pillow and letting out a slow breath.

It’s four days that slip by like molasses, disappearing in a thick fog of work and a dinner invite to Angie and Peggy and Sam asking Steve if he wants to tag along to a Knicks game and waiting and waiting and waiting. Bucky texts him before he takes off the day of, making a joke about how he’s gonna timetravel that makes Steve shake his head.

On some level, Steve knows Bucky won’t turn up on his doorstep the second he steps foot off his flight. There’s the trip from the airport. He’ll probably have to go home for numerous reasons. He’s getting in pretty late in the afternoon, and jet lag is most definitely a thing and maybe he has responsibilities immediately after. He won’t come today. Or maybe even tomorrow.

And yet.

It’s an eternity before he gets another text, short but sweet, of Bucky having landed. He sends a string of party popper emojis in return.

Bucky

_ >>Nat wants to see me, but I am not sure I will stay awake _

_ >>I hate jet lag _

Me

_ >>At least it’s pretty late, so if you can just stay awake for a few more hours, then maybe the jet lag won’t be so brutal tmrw? _

Bucky

_ >>Can’t I just conk out now and sleep for the next… _

_ >>I don’t know _

_ >>Fifty years? _

Me

_ >>Go see Nat, you maniac _

_ >>And fifty years would be awfully lonely without you _

Bucky

_ >>Sleep is not worth that kind of loneliness _

Me

_ >>Sap _

Bucky

_ >>:) _

It’s the last he hears from Bucky that night, refraining from sending anything back and instead allowing Bucky to sleep. Hopefully. Nat will probably back him up. It will be fine. They’ll have time. Steve drags himself through work the next day, picks up lunch from Katz’s when one of his shoots takes him to the neighbourhood. He takes the long way home via the gallery to see if everything is okay, smiling when Clint tells him that he’s had a few more inquiries from art consultants about buying some of his pieces, including the one he refuses to sell. Bucky texts him when Steve gets home, a string of emojis followed by a long lament that everything sucks, and he’s needed at home. Steve tells him to drink water and sleep well. They’ll have time. 

The next day, he has dinner with Peggy and Angie, a full day affair where he ends up swearing fealty to Peggy’s family and their roast recipe, laughing at Angie as she talks about the crazy antics of the dorm she used to live in while at college, and he falls into bed pleasantly buzzed on wine and knowing that Bucky is home. It will be fine.

Steve doesn’t exactly sleep in the next morning. More like… dozes. He wakes up bleary-eyed to check his phone. Too early, and he curls up in his covers, pulling them over his head and half-sleeps until he turns over, stretches his left leg and his calf cramps up. He grunts into his pillow, pulling the leg back into the warmth and tries to gently stretch away the cramp that feels like a rock-hard tennis ball. It’s still early, the world is as soft as the light filtering in through the curtains, and he has no plans. It’s a perfect morning. Mostly.

His arm wants to reach, expecting, wishing to find a warm body next to his. It’s not exactly disappointment to only find rumpled sheets and nothing else, more like a churning impatience that makes worry simmer. Steve exhales, long and slow, pulls his hand back and sets it over his heart. Soon, he tells himself.

Soon comes as a surprise a mere hour later when the buzzer screeches, making him all but fall out of bed and sends him scrambling for the intercom panel with his covers wrapped haphazardly around him.

“Hello?”

The line crackles before a distorted voice comes through:

_ “Delivery.” _

Steve has to shake his head to process the simple statement, “I’m sorry, I haven’t- I think you have the wrong apartment?”

The voice laughs.  _ “I don’t think so, lemme see here… An order from Hamilton’s. Looks like two servings of Hamilton’s Benedict and a… brioche french toast to share. I’m not saying it would be a shame to–” _

Steve buzzes for the door to open before the sentence is finished, unlocks the door with zero shame about his appearance. As the echo of steps in the stairwell come closer and closer, his heart beats faster and faster, until it stops, suspended in the quiet split second between one beat and the next, because there’s Bucky, there’s the smile he’s been missing, there’s the love of his god damn life  _ and _ he has food. Bucky barely gets a “hi” out before Steve is hauling him into the apartment, slamming the door shut and letting the blankets fall to the floor as he wraps himself around Bucky.

“Hey, you.”

Bucky’s voice sounds muffled, but Steve doesn’t care. His body is coming alive, his heart kickstarting back up and his mind is a chant of  _ BuckyBuckyBucky _ . There’s the dim rustle of the takeout bag being set down on the floor, and then Bucky’s hands are splayed over his back, each point of contact a warm pressure that seeps into him, settling him and anchoring him. It’s a strange sensation, Steve thinks, drawing in a breath and his eyes fluttering shut at the scent of Bucky; expensive cologne and underneath that, something unquantifiable that he still latches on to because it’s Bucky, it’s  _ him. _ He remembers this kind of touch, the familiar physicality of his mother hugging him before he’d go to school, kissing his forehead when he’d be home, sick with the flu, the frail grip of her hand when he’d visit her in the hospital. It’s the kind of touch he never wants to part from.

It’s not that physicality disappeared altogether after his mother passed, it just… it became something he chose, and all too often, he chose to be sparse with it. Handshakes and quick dunks on the back. Hookups with no frills, no cuddling, no hugging. Steve thought he did fine without.

Now, nearly clinging to Bucky like a koala, he realizes how much he has missed it, how much he has craved it, and he refuses to let go. Bucky backs them into the bedroom, and their brunch goes cold while Bucky holds him, the two of them mumbling hellos and sweet nothings until Steve feels his entire body go warm and slack.

“Y’know, I tol’ Sam I was seein’ someone,” Steve mumbles later, the two of them still tangled up in sheets, Bucky’s pristine shirt wrinkled beyond saving.

“Yeah?” Bucky’s fingers pause only briefly before continuing to card through Steve’s messy hair.

Steve angles his head, looking up at Bucky to find blue eyes peering at him, almost like he’s holding his breath. “Just to make him stop suggesting I meet anyone he thinks I could possibly like. ‘S not a complete lie, I just didn’t say it was you. Just told him that I am seeing someone. We’re taking it slow… And I really, really like him.”

Bucky gives him a lopsided grin, and his fingers drag down Steve’s scalp to the nape of his neck, down, down to splay between his shoulder blades. “And what did Sam say?”

“Mostly that he was a shit wingman if I did his job for him,” Steve says with a chuckle, his own fingers tracing a line up Bucky’s side and down along his arm. “No one else knows,” he adds as an afterthought, feeling the need to reassure Bucky that he’s not skipping around Brooklyn and singing about how his boyfriend is quite literally prince Charming. Well, King. Although...

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

The apology is quiet, and for a second, Steve thinks maybe Bucky has managed to see where his thoughts were headed. Steve shakes his head, scoots up to press his nose to the hinge of Bucky’s jaw.

“No, I know. I know we can’t. And I’m fine, really. I promise. We have a plan, right? Nat and Hope, and- We have a plan. And at least I can tell people I’m seeing someone. And I can tell them how amazing my boyfriend is.” He smiles against Bucky’s skin when he hears the little huff Bucky lets out. “How handsome he is. How… kind he is. How he… surprises me with brunch. And facetimes me almost every night.”

When Bucky doesn’t immediately answer, Steve peeks up at him, finding Bucky with the prettiest blush dusting his cheeks. Another stretch, and their lips meet, a sweet soft kiss that is both reassurance and, Steve realizes, a kiss hello, a kiss welcome home, an “I’ve missed you”-kiss, all wrapped into one.

“I don’t mind not telling anyone,” Steve repeats, lips still brushing against Bucky’s. “Not until we get to that point. Although…”

“What?” Bucky asks on a sigh, the word itself a small kiss.

“We might need to tell Peggy and Angie at some point. It’s a goddamn miracle neither of them have seen you coming by. Also, they might both maul me for keeping this a secret,” Steve says with a wry smile, then adding: “And Peggy could make me disappear and have it look like an accident.”

That makes Bucky laugh. Steve has told him about Peggy and Angie, about how they have come to be one of the few friends he considers close outside of work, about Thanksgiving and New Years, and especially about Peggy’s lecture the day after Bucky’s surprise visit, when she was so upset at having lost sight of Steve during New Years Eve that she almost told Steve what she does for a living.

“I suppose I could get a disguise,” Bucky muses, his tone equal parts pensive and teasing. “I could get a wig. No one bothered me much when I had long hair.”

Steve scoffs, “I’m sure your Secret Service shadows had nothing to do with that.”

“You come up with something better then!”

Steve shimmies back a little, props his head against his hand to look at Bucky. He tries to picture him with a wig, and though he knows Bucky has had long hair and looked pretty damn good with long hair, a wig… No, the image it conjures up in his head is ridiculous.

“Cap,” he says.

“I’m- what?” Bucky furrows his brow.

“Baseball cap,” Steve clarifies and, when Bucky rolls his eyes: “And sunglasses.”

Another eyeroll, this time accompanied by an exasperated groan. “Steve.”

Steve arranges his expression into one of serious thought, all while biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Listen, it worked once before and I have like ten or fifteen, you can borrow one…”

“Jesus Christ, Steve, that is the worst-”

“Can probably loan your Secret Service guys one each, too. They can fight over my BKLYN cap and my Yankees cap.” He has to bite both cheeks now, because Bucky looks like he might roll his eyes through his skull.

“Steve, for fuck’s-” Bucky stops dead, stares at him.

“What?”

“There is… so much to unpack here. You have a… You have a BKLYN cap? And why the hell do you have a Yankees cap? That should be grounds for some sort of criminal charges.”

“It was a cruel joke so I kept it out of spite. And I don’t have a BKLYN cap,” Steve answers, and when Bucky all but glares at him, he can’t hold back his grin. “I have ten BKLYN-”

The rest gets silenced by kisses, by laughter and half-uttered curses before melting into soft sighs and muffled moans. They don’t make it out of bed for hours, and later when Steve lays on his back, Bucky snoozing on his chest, he takes a moment to count his blessings. A job he likes. A year behind him that has been a rollercoaster. Friends that he will fight to keep. The love of his life asleep in his bed. Steve pulls at the covers, making sure they’re both tucked in, warm and safe. Outside, it’s a different world, and they’re going to have to navigate it by the rules of Bucky’s life. But here?

Here, is theirs.

Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s forehead, feeling his heart swell as the other man preens in his sleep at the affection.

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so, so much for reading and coming on this journey with me. I'm not gonna lie, writing Stucky is something that feels super-intimidating to me because there are so many brilliant writers and stories, but you have shown me so much kindness and appreciation. I really hope to write another Stucky story soon, if you'll have it.


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